“what is sacred: for my father” by Carole Johnston

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you rise in sepia
like sun through winter trees
sycamore ghost

gold words scroll across your aura
I hear them through the camera of your eyes
leather and roses – stained glass and ink

poet who never read poetry
who taught me how to see
the vanishing luminous muse

i echo you back from
borders of namelessness singing
your name in my sleep

when you return
trailing mists of morning
I will know that you are still
a watcher of the dawn

-Carole Johnston

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