Thursday Poem


My Father
Harry Walsh

He is a wolf
that lit out
for the high timber
at first sight of me
rounding out his wife's belly.
But it didn't take too many
tough winters
to drive his range
to the sheep.
My mother's breath
on my neck
is the name
I know him best by
on mornings
when I could freeze
dark the windows
with a whisper,
for just a sight
of him passing.