When told my father died, I did not cry.
Repose swept in as if a cleansing breeze.
He struggled to stand straight, no longer spry.
My heart leapt that he passed, not on his knees.
My heart fell, as I brood upon my son;
His poppa passing on, he lost true north.
Of the young, my boy is the elder one;
Manifest, my young man will carry forth.
I cannot help my son to mourn and grieve,
Death strikes us all, each one, in its own way.
Yet stand with one accord; we lean, we cleave,
Together, find the strength for the new day.
A father tends to boy when boy is young.
To find his strength rests now within his son.
David L. Stanley, Feb. 2019
Thanks for reading. Hey, if you liked this, give
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more poetry in our lives, eh?