For my Father
In the machine shop, you have lost birdsong.
Your hearing worn to blunt on the fine end
by the quick pitch of cut steel ground long. Gone
the trill of warbler, sparrow, finch and wren.
As now the meadowlark’s throat pours silence,
you recall song but take note of motion
and of shadow and color as solace.
And so, witness with sharpened devotion.