October 16, 2016

Silent, Still

My father's always waiting

whenever I come home,

riding with me in silence

as I drive down country roads,

his tie loosened

in the warmth of the sun,

summer heat dancing

across the hood of my car.

Like light from distant stars,

each mile we go

takes us farther back in time.

He's silent, still,

only the poem

of his name and dates,

left for me to scan,

to wring out what remains

in the space

between the lines.