Sunday mornings I would reach <br />high into his dark closet while standing <br /> on a chair and tiptoeing reach <br />higher, touching, sometimes fumbling <br /> the soft crowns and imagine <br />I was in a forest, wind hymning <br /> through pines, where the musky scent <br />of rain clinging to damp earth was <br /> his scent I loved, lingering on <br />bands, leather, and on the inner silk <br /> crowns where I would smell his <br />hair and almost think I was being <br /> held, or climbing a tree, touching <br />the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent <br /> was that of clove in the godsome <br />air, as now, thinking of his fabulous <br /> sleep, I stand on this canyon floor <br />and watch light slowly close <br /> on water I can't be sure is there.<br /><br />Mark Irwin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-father-s-hats/
