On hearing your poem sung by your daughter

For every word grew in you,

wild creep in your veins until

they broke the skin, bloomed,

and died, dripping brown curls

onto the pad, over your pen,

on your keyboard. You saw them,

they came out of you, you wrote

them down. But you can’t sing

along -- You see your daughter's

mouth forming words, you

know the words, but not the tune. And you do.

You saw them, you were there.

But you cannot sing along.

You know the words, and you don’t.

You know the song, and you don’t.

As she sings, and as you fumble around

in your dusty dry tears, turning them over,

pile after pile of dead leaves, as more

fall and fall on you. The song itself, dead leaves,

brought up close, your words

served back to you,

that you saved for years,

that you placed in that poem carefully

(oh so carefully) so that they wouldn’t fall out.

And here they come, into your face, your eyes,

your ears, and all you can do is cry you sonuvabitch. 

A gift, a time capsule, a memory saying, “see this, see all this.

This is you, you should know yourself.

This is all I can give you.

Listen and know yourself.

Why ever be jealous of others?

No one can have this."