My Father Speaks

My elder son is writing
At last.
He who would keep us rapt
And, yes,
He that shared the craft
With so many others
Who needed a voice.

I tried to pay him, you know.
“Just write,” I said, one summer,
But he would work on boats
Or paint the house
And play that dumb guitar.

But now he tells the stories
That matter
In a way that matters.
I know he wishes
I could be there to see,
But I think now my job
Is done.