You used to read to me stories of mystery
With voices many and images bountiful.
Green elephants, peas, beans and bacon
Is it any wonder it’s the writer road I have taken?
You taught through your own disposition,
You with a book or paper always on chair arm
A rubber-grip pen flicking between thoughtful fingers,
Feet upon table bare.
From hands of creativity came paintings, benches,
Tomes and more,
From sanding doors to pastel chalked
And water painted pictures from mind so full.
Elevated to platform high
That mere mortals cannot even hope to crawl,
Fore upon it sits
An adored Father after all.