My Fathers Hat

　　 by Mark Irwin

　　 Sunday mornings I would reach

　　 high into his dark closet while standing

　　 on a chair and tiptoeing reach

　　 higher， touching， sometimes fumbling

　　 the soft crowns and imagine

　　 I was in a forest， wind hymning

　　 through pines， where the musky scent

　　 of rain clinging to damp earth was

　　 his scent I loved， lingering on

　　 bands， leather， and on the inner silk

　　 crowns where I would smell his

　　 hair and almost think I was being

　　 held， or climbing a tree， touching

　　 the yellow fruit， leaves whose scent

　　 was that of a clove in the godsome

　　 air， as now， thinking of his fabulous

　　 sleep， I stand on this canyon floor

　　 and watch light slowly close

　　 on water I'm not sure is there