My father was an artist
He painted and he drew
But one day, he laid all that down
Decided he was through
And though he worked in music
Arranged with mind and pen,
He never really took up
His artistry again
Except when I was very small
And he was overseas
His letters contained sketches
Of us – his memories –
His talent so profuse that
Part of it he lightly hid:
I wanted so to be like him
But he no longer
Did
To share is human:
Love it <3
That is an awesome rendering. I thought so before I even read the sweet poem.
This is excellent.
Best wishes
john