The Inquiry

I spent many a gloomy Saturday, Rain boots on and pen in hand, And once a fellow approached me, Wearing a look of reprimand, "Why ever do you sit there, With paper so close by, And never stop to realize, That time so quickly flies?" I thought long on the inquiry, And displeasure in his eyes, And found that my answer, Was that writing was my prize, For though the hours are as seconds, And the dawn is quick to dart, To sit and author a poem, Is a thing near to my heart, For I remember many years ago, Sitting with hair perfectly curled, A father reading pretty poems, Off to his little girl, Now my questioner is gone, Yet still I sit and write, And remember as I do so, A father's kiss goodnight.