MY FATHER’S SUITCASE
by Gerardine Baugh © 2007
~Gerardine Baugh© 1/25/2006
When was a child I can remember; Writer; softly whispered,
No one was around; when I reached for the one who spoke.
I felt safe within that word; I searched out its meaning,
Leather bound path of words, side by side.
Two dozen, books of knowledge, lined neatly;
Their bindings soften from time, they smelled of thought.
Writer; whispered and echoed in my soul.
Reading from the works of others;
Their voices murmured;
I have ignored my path, with its restrained voice.
Still, I hear my resonance of need murmuring louder;
From my soul, the whisper sounds commanding.
You’re a writer!
This is a wonderful writer’s group.