Unable to sell his fiction, my father
turned his art to text books,
seeding grammar exercises
with humor to waken students,
amuse himself.
For my first story (I was six, it was
four lines long) he typed up two
copies with carbons, pleased
his daughter shared his joy
in crafting with words.
He who would never have accepted
an incomplete on my report card,
went suddenly, left books unwritten,
deadlines missed, his life
a work unfinished.
What We Have Left Undone by Ellen Roberts Young | Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
