Chisels

Summer: the sizzling hiss of boiled air
like a handsaw in new-kilned pine.
The heat siphons off my pen;
my hand leaves

DAD

I think because I'm a girl,
people naturally compare me to Mom.
How they fail to see I'm identical to you;
is a mystery

Heavenly Wishes

All of my life, whether present or apart,
Father was held dear in my heart.
I think of all the things you had

With weathered hands
and nails bitten to the quick
you still manage
to button up your shirt
and lace up your shoes
with only

Father
You are the best

In the honesty
Of the best

You have spoken
Of life

To do the best

But never to
Push