The day he died the sky was blue
without a wisp of cloud—
reminding me of pure truth.
We’d picked this morning
to have a heart to heart—
unaware of the importance
of the words we were forming.
I can’t remember all the words
that were uttered though they often
creep in while I slumber.
My dreams open layers of memory
music played on fringes of thought—
long forgotten by my conscious mind.
— Here I hear the voice
of my father.