With breakfast eaten,
Day the height of a regal tower
The day well into half
Well written with my
Stories and fellowship
With world, singing
In the joy of record
Ideas flowing like sand
Through fingers of hands
So small I hardly remember
My little one hand in hand
OH, what a privilege
The memory now gives
So much joy, she accepted
Daddy now the joy returns
As transferred we both
Listen to my eighty-seven-
Year old father, grandpa
Still active, his body
Showing me what will
Happen when I grow
Old, no really old no
Some odd memory
A surface like a dead catfish,
Living next still forgotten
On edge of Racoon River
The other river in the capital
Wher I grew up when my brother
We first held stiff, that dead
Fish; it weighed more than
One hundred pounds,
We let it lie
It was dead, but Oh my
Dear little four-year-old
Her smooth hand small
Clasping my fingers, smooth
As day-break, we trusted and walked
Pavement down the walk, Oh
This miracle of living tissue
Hand and hand to Social
Park, grass, trees, flowers,
Relevance, our memory
We now share, oh my daughter,
Oh my daughter, oh my daughter
Keep fingers from dead catfish
Stay innocent all your days until doth
You fin morning sun, breakfast
Meditate upon each precious
Momement like holding
Daddy’s hand, the trust
You still possess at twenty-nine
You are still alive and learning.
Charles Taylor C2018
