By Jace Turner
This is the closest I’ll get to you, old man,
now that you’re gone—these old photos
develop new meaning.
There will be no more new memories,
even those I have continue
How vain to think I can hold on
to the afternoon musk of tobacco sweat &
labor my hands have never known.
The ice blue of your eyes aged kindly,
how your words tumbled like stones
softened with years—
now when I look at you I see
into the past but cannot return to tell you
all those things a grown son sees.
When not writing poems, Jace Turner is most likely taking long walks, reading, visiting friends, or making a mess in the kitchen. Also by this poet: "Masahide's Moon"