It catches my eye as I walk across the room
tawny spots, gray tinged slink across the snowmelt
right, left, right, left – like pendulums to her clock
clawless tracks of a wildcat, a string of calling cards
for the squirrel, the vole, the quick snowshoe hare
and here I stand at the slider, aware, my desk a cache
my camera zooms, focuses, clicks, hunts her down
she licks and preens, lithe and lynx-like in the copse
a crowned queen on her throne of stone, she’s alone
paws retract now, tuck in against the cold, eyes half-close
under gray sky, undercover in her coated mantle of instinct
A good Dad.
Who is he?
Sometimes it’s hard to put it into words,
sometimes all you need is a good idea
and some action
a warm smile
lots of love
some patience thrown in
a lesson or two
a kid at heart to follow
one little book with a tree swing in it
some elbow grease
pliers and a good hammer
a little helper
heavy duty bright yellow rope
Papa and Robert put up a tree swing after reading about one in a story.
connecting steel chain
a special swing
a ladder and a sturdy branch.
That’s a good Dad
that’s a dream come true.