I think again of my self,
at the dining room table,
or squatting beneath,
sketching my father,
seated next to mother, crocheting,
smoking or reading his
Armenian newspaper,
silently enduring his life,
the puzzle of it now grounded
here, his dreamland out of
sight but never lost to his mind.
Do I see their souls or only
my own, appearing out of the
dusk of days, alight now in
my hand, wanting expression,
a release from its hiding
place, urging my fingers
to speak aloud, inside
the silence of its voice.
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