Father’s Voice
I can’t remember what my father said
Except when he was storytelling, or
Declaiming poetry, or when his head
Was full of politics or God. His store
Of beauty came in tales, or ringing lines
Of loveliness and joy, and plots he spun,
And childhood memories. His voice still shines
In those lost things like that Canaveral sun
The man remembered. Conjuring them through
Boy eyes, for me and brothers, resonates
Across the decades still. They sing again
Like Wilma from a boat. Our shore awaits
That voice, relived by him, across the waves
Now stronger than the silence of their graves.