Heritage I like to say I’d an Egyptian father If that is too obscure for you, I’d rather Explain it just by citing preservation. They preserved mummies, he his indignation At how the world had gone awry, once all Ethics, society had gone on stall. My father then stepped gingerly among Past trophies that his ancestors had won. Hoping his prayer and reverence sufficed He kept his world on track, but when it iced Outside, you could not see the dated rocks He placed beneath his trees and hollyhocks, Each one a past indignity he buried Within his boundaries. Although he was harried By slings of life interred within his yard. At least he had contained them. It was hard For him, to live without what used to be– His venue, and then have to deal with me. A Violinist Reclaimed Before self-righteous rules, brash and insistent There was a natural rhythm, quite unspoken So when my father hired an assistant Traditionalist, he followed this, unbroken. He brooked no power structure interference No lying resumes or false confessing To quasi-moral snoops. He just made sense And went on instinct, and John’s salad dressing, Which proved to be quite good. His violin Then raised the bar for father on John’s score, And entertaining tales that he could spin; Confessing that he drank made even more Sense. But when John said, inebriated, He’d fallen on his violin and spun Across the street, my father celebrated– Exclaimed in joyous tones You are the one! A kindred spirit hired, and in spades! They worked together well for some decades. The Holland Road Pines Long rows of pines my father placed On Holland Road are interlaced With what he knew. I see them there; He cannot know my backward stare. I sense his purpose here. I read His poetry, perceive his need To leave a mark, that we may know Time moves, although it is so slow We barely know it takes us where An aging footstep on a stair Speaks volumes of the speed of night; I see his trees, in fading light. Published originally in Trinacria A former Wilbur Fellow and six-time Pushcart nominee, Sally Cook is a regular contributor to National Review, and has appeared in venues as varied as Chronicles, Lighten Up On Line, and TRINACRIA. Also a painter, her present works in the style known as Magic Realism are represented in national collections such as the N.S.D.A.R. Museum in Washington, D.C. and The Burchfield-Penney, Buffalo, NY.