Metrical Friday: My Father’s Hat

My Father’s Hat
By Mark Irwin

Sunday mornings I would reach

high into his dark closet while standing

   on a chair and tiptoeing reach

higher, touching, sometimes fumbling

   the soft crowns and imagine

I was in a forest, wind hymning

   through pines, where the musky scent

of rain clinging to damp earth was

   his scent I loved, lingering on

bands, leather, and on the inner silk

   crowns where I would smell his

hair and almost think I was being

   held, or climbing a tree, touching

the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent

   was that of a clove in the godsome

air, as now, thinking of his fabulous

   sleep, I stand on this canyon floor

and watch light slowly close

   on water I’m not sure is there.

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