March 2022
Bio Note: I am enjoying the small exchanges I‘ve had with poets from these pages. It is so easy to send an email to someone whose work has touched me, and it is so rewarding and encouraging to receive that type of email from others. I’m still watching the birds with awe, and zooming in to great poetry readings and discussion. It has been a long, quiet, and cold, but often beautiful winter.
Let You Go
I place my father gently
in the blue chair that remains.
Blue fabric; wooden frame.
It rocks, and reclines.
My husband sits there now.
He may have found a dog’s hair;
holds it up for my inspection.
Sun beams in, blankets the chair with warmth.
There, where man and dog sat, companions.
My father’s light went off. He was here;
now, he’s not. There was a moment
when he ended. And, is now no more.
Except for memory. How long will that last?
How strong?
Gently, I place my father in his chair
reconstructing the round head,
the bearded jaw. His dress, tweed. His scent,
slightly sweet. His laugh, a chuckle. Stay with me
Dad. Don’t fade away.
Stay in the chair; relax awhile. I don’t want
to let you go.
©2022 Marjorie Moorhead
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL