my father, the poet

he read to me before i was born

as my mother clutched her swollen belly,

     he would place his hand over hers and read us bedtime stories,

     lulling us into peace and sleep

this was before i could hear or comprehend language

     and before i could feel true weariness

     but i could feel true rest all the same

he continued to read to me

     to my infancy

     to when i learned to read myself

     beyond that too

but then i desired to hear my own voice

     so i'd take that night's book and read aloud to him

he was the most captivated listener

     sometimes i'd look over and see him smiling with his eyes closed

     and i thought i was really just that moving

     that my voice was just that powerful

but in retrospect

     i must be the most moved

     that he has always been my most captivated listener

     my most constant support

     through ventures far heavier than a borrowed paperback novella

he founded my love of words in me

     yet i somehow lack those to eloquently express how grateful i am

     how lucky i feel to be his daughter

     and how much of the strength i now possess was once his