My father had this basswood, folding ruler. He died, it is now mine, and when I die, I hope my son will keep it, and then in turn, pass it down.
Sonnet 85 — My Father’s Ruler
The wooden rule hath faded from long use.
Two feet long, it doth measure sound and true.
The marks may wane, its boxwood ne’er traduce,
with hinges brass, it opens plumb and smooth.
A varnished finish, slippery to the touch,
belies the use of these past fifty years.
The patina-ed wood, time can never rush;
’Tis an ancient tool, one that has no peer.
The once-black markings now are faded grey,
yet issue still the measured answers fair.
Twice twelve inches, and all that they survey,
my father’s rule doth call the numbers square.
When e’er I hold the ruler in my hands,
’tis guided by the father of the man.
— — September 2020.
Thank-you for reading.
