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 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 can't be sure is there.

My Father's Hats by Mark Irwin

In Honor of my Father's birthday yesterday.

Sorry I'm late. Started a new job. Swing shifts/12 hours. Nightshifts are tough.