At eighty-four, and far away,
You live your life in forward mode;
Not looking back, or feeling owed,
You’re still excited for your day.
There is so much of you in me:
The silliness, the sorrow, too,
The many things I learned from you;
But most of all, there’s poetry.
You’d read (as I played on the floor)
From Stevenson, or Edward Lear;
Your laughing voice, so strong and clear,
The rhythm, and the words, would soar —
Now cherished moments, every one.
These verses that I learned at play,
Still with me now, and so I say:
Thank you for poetry – Your Son
Inspired by this prompt.