HOLDING A MIRROR TO THE SUN
(In memory of William Kenneth Finton)
Is it the ghost of him I see
in the restless dreamscapes of a hollow night?
The ghost of him … or my own flawed impressions?
Twenty years ago my world quaked violently
when he passed so suddenly
from our lives, so quickly there was barely time for tears.
A sudden shock … a stunning loss …
and life moved on without him.
With childhood’s end, the world could never be the same.
Twenty years … so long ago I barely recognize
that younger, wandering self.
Yet, in those silent dreamscapes of the night
he comes to visit still.
A near sighted old neighbor said
he saw him walking through the tall grasses
of the abandoned yard years after we left
the old Ohio homestead.
“Bunk,” I said, not prone to thoughts of spirits,
yet encounters of a…
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PHI lippa. Letters of Love 