To My Father
A fleeting thought thus cannot grasp the fantasy
That pierced the chambers of your soul at will,
Yet none can say the forward path is empty
To stretch the rapture in the silence, still…
But what are sparks of light amidst the gloaming
If such a weary flight is long and low?
And if the path is swept by drifting snowing,
You will not ford the lake across the flow…
You can’t convey the thrill in shifting chords like
That spill away like waves of trembling grace.
You won’t dissolve in watercolored fjords
Where transparent walls of surf embrace…
No lesson can be drawn from just a gesture
Where fire and sincerity take hold.
Nor will you end the vain and restless quest
Where parallels with vibrant cloth unfold…
In twilight of illusions, you won’t find then
The hidden sense that fills the light of day,
But through the lofty tropes within the mind,
Perhaps your heart will brush the gloom away?..
How else? For love is stronger, ever-brightened,
The sense of sacred feelings stays the same,
And even frost on windowpanes tonight
Will weave into this winter’s winding game.
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Author:
cellinic (
Offline) - Published: January 27th, 2026 17:27
- Category: special-occasion
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments2
A most lovely poem that is so well worded and rhymed it flows and is as smooth as honey. A fave
Many thanks, dear SB!
Most welcome
Cellinic, this is a thoughtful meditation on inheritance and love. Illusion, memory, and restraint move together until love becomes the constant that outlasts them all. The poem doesn’t solve the mystery…it stays with it. Very powerful and a fave, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Many thanks, my dear friend!
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