His Eyes: Some Thoughts of My Father

His eyes are pale like old glass, flecked with bits of sandy spots, and often they appear lonesome. His eyes are the eyes of an Appalachian descendent of Polish immigrants. His eyes carry the weight of more than his own years. Some evenings his eyes seem to carry the weight of all of the occupations, depressions, and ruined dreams in Eastern Europe, and in those times there is little comfort anyone can bring, save a willingness to sit and drink wine and sit some more.

— from Small Things in My Hand, an extended semester project for WV Wesleyan

Frail Things

I keep thinking about fraility.

Frail Things

They are gentle,

the frail things that once seemed unbreakable and strong.

You start a family, you devote,

and the thing stands.

In Truth all things are frail, and break

when we are not looking.

Some give their whole lives that you may have

a strong thing.

See that thing, and keep it safe.