in Wordsworth was my father's voice

It was the twelfth of May,

and night wore silence like a cloak.

The stars, untroubled by modern glare,

breathed quietly upon your birthright—

a cradle woven not of silver spoons,

but wind through orchard bough.

You came, I imagine, with dusk’s permission—

as supper cooled on earthen plates,

and chapel bells dimmed in twilight hush.

Somewhere, children prayed like sparrows:

without doctrine, without shame, only wonder,

offered up like crumbs.

And there you stood—or would—

speaking to daffodils and grieving yew trees,

your voice a covenant with the simple,

with all things that endure softly.

My father heard you first

through page and candlelight,

and passed that flame to me.

Now I walk where screens pulse,

not stars, but still, in the hush before sleep,

I hear you measure footfalls across a lake

that mirrors nothing but itself.

In your lines, the world slows

just long enough to be forgiven.