My Father
Sky is the drizzle playing in the skin of leaf
isn’t it the first wriggle of the morning
I wait for?
Like my father rowing across water
among corn silks for many nights
My dad was old and exhausted over the Mediterranean
through moving his life to love along roads
Stands there like invincible mountains, in the garden of myrtles
with the tale bird calling my childhood.
Copyright © Mustafa Guclu | Year Posted 2020
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