My Father

My Father PAUL WITTENBERGER JAN 25 1 My father was a tower bell that tolled the hour, a hammer against the iron rings of time, dry sand in an hourglass, empty bottle of wine. In life I could not embrace his secrets. When he died, clouds wept, birds mourned, and the great clock in the hallway stopped. 2 I saw my father's face covered with dirt his swollen lips bent to meet horizon's last gaze, kissing his way to the land of the dead Thanks for reading Paul’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Pledge your support Paul’s Substack is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell Paul’s Substack that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments. © 2024 Paul Wittenberger 205 S. Park Avenue, Fond du lac, WI 54935 Unsubscribe