My Father's Cane

My Father’s Cane
(After Pinsky)

When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
to the crystal silence between the pages.
I could feel the cadence of my father’s cane.

When I had no meter, I was not quite sane.
I looked for joy in trying to assuage
the memory of the cadence of my father’s cane.

When I had no rhythm, I walked the lanes,
placed words on pages, a sauntering sage.
I sang to the cadence of my father’s cane.

When I had no image, prosody was my bane,
I borrowed from Neruda: he was my gauge.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain.

When I had no lyrics, I let images reign
like the one of the heron standing on an edge
with one foot tapping like my father’s cane.

I sat at the table to the right of pain,
to the left of father, away from his rage.
When I had no words, I listened to the rain,
and wrote the cadence of my father’s cane.