prabāt

A gentle wind sweeps past me
and sings into my ears
tales of the kind time
of those joyful years
of you and me.

of tender strokes to my cheek
waking me every morning

of your breath over my wound
healing me for the moment

of the tight hugs
bringing sleep to my sullen eyes

of kisses to my forehead
blessing me away to school

of the tata through the window pane
rendering my eyes moist
unable to let go of your warmth

of your grasping my tiny hand
walking down the lanes with you

of your bent knees
that I slept over
my head resting safe over

of my innocent smile
every time I called u appa

of the day I thought
I would once be your height
to talk all that you talk
to do all that you do
to be the man that you are
just as you are.
And little did I think
that day was never meant to be

My eyes have bloated
with dried out tears
of unposken words
still speaking aloud
Buried memories
still alive, and still guiding.
Miss you dad.

A gentle wind sweeps past me
and sings into my ears
tales of the kind time
of those joyful years
of you and me.


My dad would have turned 55 today.

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 24, 2005 at 7:58 PM.