Six hundred thirty months of age has he,
whom all the world deems 52 years old.
I used to call it eccentricity –
the way he misses things, or thinks it bold
to be impulsive, wise to move with speed.

His children need a parent even more
than he requires counsel he won’t heed,
and all of them together want a floor
of motherkindness and a father guide.

I stuck around too long. I know it when
my effort’s fruitless. Even so I tried
with wordy facts, and then I tried again.
But nothing I say makes him realize
the shape of love or character of wise.

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