daddy's girl

poem by me: saturday mornings

saturdays,
short of catastrophe or unavoidable meetings at dawn,
he makes breakfast--
waffles, biscuits, scones--
has for years,
as long as my childish memory can hold.
no sleeping in for him,
no cereal in front of cartoons for us;
is this not a silent show of love?
Indexing:
I love the way you talk about your dad--he must be so special!! And can I say that I love the way your poetry so often speaks of things that seem kind of small and ordinary? Because those things really are precious, and need no glorification--just a little acknowledgement, which is something you do so well!
Seconded, in all respects. And as one who has the had the remarkable privilege to meet the man in question, most hearty agreement on your evaluation. Why isn't there a wormhole between the east and west coasts? All of America would be grateful, I'm certain (well, perhaps not the interstate truckers and delivery dudes.)
*hugs*

A wormhole like that would be awesome! Then we could hang out together on weekends and such, and it wouldn't matter than I'm horrible at replying to your letters. I have one on my desk now, staring at me unhappily. Maybe sometime this week...? I will try.
He is very special! Although perpetually over-worked, which can make it hard to spend much time with him. :(

I figure small and ordinary things are what form the vast majority of our lives, so--'write what you know', right? :P But also, I'm trying to learn not to take such things for granted, and these dinky little poems seem to be helping with that.