My Father's Hats

Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I can't be sure is there.

by Mark Irwin

Comments (4)

Whiplash! I thought I was going to read a rather run-of-the-mill poem dedicated to fathers but instead I am presented with a masterpiece of writing! The stream-of-consciousness style of writing is my holy grail, the subtlety of the symbolism in this piece, the excellence of word choice- - it is all here!
A very sweet poem that touches your heart. Trying to reach out to hold father's hat and the imagery of a pine forest, climbing a tree, touching the yellow fruit, scented clove - very well written. Enjoyed reading it. Mark.
Touching the yellow fruit! ! Nice work.
This is lovely and nice to read! ! ! ! Good job! ! !