How Did I Miss Seeing It?

Here I am again, then – very young
And wandering the beaches of my youth;
My father, with his Kodak, took this picture
And I thought nothing of it then, in truth

The wonder of a sea so vast and teeming;
Of sand so white, with so much sky above —
Does not today seem to me as astounding
As how it was I missed
My father’s love

Painting Dots

The house we’re in now’s not the one
In which the kids got bigger;
The little mem’ries I have lost –
The count’s too great to figure

For life’s a craft of painting dots
These flecks of hopes and prayers
That only form a picture when
There’s no one left
Who cares

She Thinks She’ll Probably Die Today

A little, anyways, inside.

She thinks she’ll probably die today,
A little, anyways, inside;
For he’ll go on his merry way
While she is left there to decide

How to dispose of love’s remains,
The home for which she’s grieving still:
She thinks she’ll probably cry today
And heaven knows
She will