’Twas night last, a dream whence Dad spoke to me.
His voice doth growl in low and somber tones.
“I know that Father’s Day draws near,” said he.
“As Fathers, we must reap the seeds we’ve sown.”
“Thou plant seeds deep; stark roots beget lush leaves.
Your son doth wove the threads within your soul.
And as your heart, perchance, still sometimes grieves,
don’t beach your love for him upon life’s shoals.”
“I am dead,” said he, “this is, yes, a dream.
There is no other world for you to see.
Recall to stoke your inner light a’gleam.
This is, my son, edict, not gainsay plea.”
“Seize hold the day, and glory as a dad
You’re e’er my son, my own demise be damned.”
{David L. Stanley:DStan58} June 2019
I’m bringing sonnets back. Tell your friends? Thanks.
