Your keys now,
Mine when I was a kid;
Hard to believe it still plays like it did
When I lost even a spanked-butt-bid
For overdue homework to it.
That I thread a lullaby through it,
So I cracked my knuckles
And finger-glid a sonnet upon it.
You’re no insomniac, my foxglove;
I found you forty-winking five bars in:
Flying, singing into the wind,
Abound on bluebonnets, who knows?
But as milky-way-gone as you were,
I couldn’t stop playing,
For I, too, was rest-awaying woes.
However our waking goes,
If even fruit-looped and burnt-toast then,
To cherish you is akin to Seuss’s art.
Daydreamingly your dad,
I’ll love you unending-so—
Letting go’ll be the impossible part.
© 2018, photograph by J. Horner, Windstrewn and Windstrewn.com, All Rights Reserved
Poetry: Yellow Grass