By Rosemerry Wahtola Trommmer
Hear how the galaxy’s engine
runs smooth tonight?
No shudder in the stars,
though if something were wrong
Dad could fix it with duct tape.
And should one star collide with another,
my father would not imprecate the offenders.
He might ask what they had learned from the experience.
He might say they were going too fast for conditions.
He might sit them in different corners to think things over.
I have sat in the corner.
This morning my son pointed to the bowed blue sky.
“Stars hiding,” he says. “Find them.”
I told him I’d fix it so we’d see them after dinner.
They appear. No magic. No tape.
I learned from experience.
To Love Him is Not Always to Know Him
He is more bullet and also bouquet,
more sand paper than velvet,
more steak than soufflé, though he’ll try it.
He waxes silent when stung.
He is motor oil stain and old row boat.
He stops for every rummage sale sign
and will not leave until he’s bartered and bantered
and crafted a deal.
He is four wheel drive.
He is more duct tape than craftsman,
more navy than pink,
he’s as father as friend,
more vulnerable than I think.
photo credit: Enigma