Her Father
my neighbour confided in me
last night her roof had disintegrated.
why was her countenance pallid:
a roof can be rebuilt.
upon peeking from my fence,
I found the roof unscathed.
the weeping of the woman
who gave birth to her
was hailstorm on a
delicious rainy day,
alerted my worried heart.
my neighbour had once said:
how can you breathe
freely and fearlessly
without your
best friend's presence?
hoping it was me
I had asked:
who is your best friend?
she had replied
without encouraging
a second thought,
her eyes radiating love
that would compel your heart
to smile and ache:
my father.
he was not that roof
you put together with
asphalt, cement and metal;
he was the most dependable roof
that kept his unfledged tribe safe
from the vagaries of the outside world,
it was her father who had
shut his eyes only to open
again on the day of doom.
Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts