Time's Origin

My father kissed
my cheek
and held a farewell
handshake
too long.
As awkward as any girl.
A warning plead
to look after those
left behind.
His stubble
wirebrushed soft moss
from the
slate hard
truth
of his fear.
The date is a dry line
in a rubberbanded diary.
But no matter.
The harsh pinpricks
of his beard
mark time's begin
and childhood's
end.


Mike Lyne

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