This poem has been, appropriately, in the works for some time. I believe it's the first I've ever written about my father, though I have thoughts for several more. The text of the poem is at the bottom of this post, as this is another debut of a work.
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The poems will continue to flow, but so must the Justice.
Scoping
I'm standing on the landing
Of our brand new house,
staring out into the yard.
My son asks me what I'm doing,
and I reply
That I'm thinking about something.
In my thinking I am tinkering
Building out a shape,
Resolving the problem.
Working out the requirements
As my father did
So many times when I was a son.
I never gathered why it mattered
why he just stood there.
Staring at an empty parcel of our yard,
or a wall of the house
Why not just start doing?
He was scoping in that moment
As he stood there still.
His mind assembling the pieces
and the measurements
He would tell me.
Eventually I knew I would see
Something new out in the yard;
Or some fresh construction:
Bringing craftsmanship
And utility to our home.
And as I am standing on the landing
Staring out the window
of our brand new house,
My son asking me
why I was just standing there…
I know that in so many small ways,
I have become my father.
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