My Father's Hats

Jason H.

Kedo

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.

Poem Source

I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman

Ricardo

Daniel

Peter

Christopher

I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear;

Those of mechanics--

each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;

The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--

the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--

the hatter singing as he stands;

The wood-cutter's song--

the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning,

or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;

The delicious singing of the mother--

or of the young wife at work--

or of the girl sewing or washing--

Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;

The day what belongs to the day--

At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

... Walt Whitman

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