My father never set foot in hallowed halls,
Yet books filled him, and his voice rang out bold,
Like oaks of wisdom rooted deep and tall,
His words, heavy with the weight of pure gold.
Not bound to titles or caps thrown in air,
He sat with Whitman, Shakespeare, Melville, Poe,
Sought truths beyond, felt life’s wild, breathing flare,
As rivers of thought in his soul did flow.
Pages worn, his nights in candle’s low glow,
Crafting language as carpenters build homes,
To give shape to thoughts, to let wisdom grow,
Though he labored far from high marble domes.
Unseen scholar, the world in every page,
My father, teacher, in this boundless age.