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|My Father's Decanter|
By Nancy Row Scott
Each prism calls him back to me
the crystal reflects his face
chiseling forehead, eye, cheekbone; the mouth
chanting a fable of war won or lost
decants a river to smooth the deep crevice,
washes away unnamed fear;
arms gesture with profound oration
the great roman nose tilts
upward; raises the bottle
checks the glistening content. Drops
trickling down the icy rock
cascading warm winter light.
Holds back the thick black centuries.
Copyright © 1999, 2000 Nancy Row Scott
© Copyright 1997, 2023, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 12/10/2000