Across a poem her father wrote, the sun
Is slanting like it may have slanted then.
"Complete in August 1922,"
It says, with name signed next, somewhat askew.
His sonnet's neither poorly wrought nor done
With flair; it is a plain thing, quite homespun,
A trifle sentimental, true, but when
Her sentiment despoiled the world of men?
The lines are guileless ones, about a pair
Of wrens; the cadence misses, here and there,
But she reads proudly of his pretty birds
And stands in quiet thanks for simple words.
And now comes night, the moon a golden boat
That breathes across a poem her father wrote.