dad
by Britta Adams
My father spoke softly,
like wind before the storm:
Don’t stop imagining
the life of the aphid, how it sucks
the watery marrow from each
leaf it encounters. Don’t neglect
the way raindrops dance
on car windows or how wiggly worms
cry when exposed on wet cement. Don’t
ignore a small girl caught in the eye
of a hurricane or the single shy tear
unnoticed by those who rush by —
the day you do is the day
you die.
My father whispered “goodnight”
like wind before the storm.
I can still hear him
typing away in his dark corner closet,
while we girls were supposedly sleeping.
But I would stay up and listen
to words coming to life:
The drip drip drip of keyboard clicks,
echoing down the hallway.
It sounded like rain.
Britta Adams is a poet living in Orem, Utah, with a passion for binging documentaries, playing video games, and baking delicious treats.
