Lunch With Father

[sawgr]

I dreamed I had lunch with my dead father, I think that this gives too much away, what about eluding to him having passed away throughout, the poem and then coming out and saying it at the end.
he talked of this and that, and everything,
and even when hearing nothing told me something.

After the potato soup sprinkled with salt,
after the warm corn bread muffins with butter,
he told me secrets—
how there is warmth under crusted snow;
how someone will always be waiting for me,
even the venders at a farmer’s market,
the ones in straw hats who sell clingstone peaches
with all their promises of flavor;
but especially how the earth bears all things,
even my sadness.

I don't see this poem as sad, so much as longing, so I'm not too excited about the ending.

I think this piece has a lot of potential and I can almost feel the warmth under the crusted snow!