Yarrow House

In Wordless Wonder: A poem for my Father

He feels poems. 
They ring in him. 
       Misted mornings
       lie on his shoulders like rocks.
       Springs of sunlight
       stretch him wider than noon.
He sees poems under stones, in roots. 
       He rolls visions in his fingers, 
        arching sparks of fire on metal, 
        gleam of polished bearings sinking home.
He feels poems.

Published in The Immigrant, Cedar Press, Seattle: 1984

Onetime reproduction for non-resale purposes permitted by the author with the following credit line:  by Judith Yarrow