I read your book today, father, because
It was cold, wet, and windy outside.
Behind closed doors, by candlelight, a shawl
Wrapped round my neck, father, I read
How your arms reach for me, in the dark,
And I for you. These intentions, though written
In a river of gold, father, evanesced
Long ago, making us each strangers, father,
Though somehow forged as one.
On the last page, struck by your book’s
Seamless flow, I felt like I was walking
Toward myself as if in a mirror.