She sits there,
Fingers entwined,
Face showing her tangled mind.
"I don't know what to write,"
She states, and follows,
"I don't have anything interesting
To say."
I ask her what she loves...
Sometimes it's horses,
Sometimes law,
Sometimes children,
Sometimes God,
Sometimes....
Always
Something that she loves.
And when she talks,
Her eyes grow bright,
Revealing memories,
To be nudged and wheedled,
Poked a bit and needled,
To find that sliver and
Extract the thought
On which to write.
Then off she goes to compose,
To start a journey up the path
We both hope leads to a diploma,
A job, a career, an opportunity.
When she is gone, I sit and muse....
I am a father and grandfather now,
Still adjusting training wheels and
Giving that first push,
Still patching skinned up knees,
Pulling slivers...
Sending children on their way.