Channeling
Sometimes I wear my dad’s last hat
When I’m mowing the grass,
A cream colored fedora I bought
Him for a late life birthday.
He wore it on preacher visits
At the hospital and the rest home
Where he was the chaplain.
Tending old souls, it gave
Him a serious look.
On my much smaller head
It sinks to my ears
Fending off tree limbs,
Devilish grape vines reaching
From iron poles,
No rescued souls,
No parables told.
Seventeen years, Dad’s memories grown slim,
Wearing his lid helps me remember him.
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