Prolific, he wrote poems, published books,
ideas flowed like waterfalls, not brooks.
My father wrote of nature, music, art,
most in poetic form, sharp as a dart.
He chose his words with utmost care to tell
the stories stirring in his head, to spell
ideas with suspense and tension. Four
weeks after he had died I found some more
of his fine poems. One, though, brought my tears.
Its subject? Me as little girl. He’d not
shared it. I wondered why. Emotion shot
through me. I read this poem. My dad nears.