Halifax

my father tells

me the story of the one room

schoolhouse

in Halifax.

the winters there.

the ocean.

his wet socks

on the stove.

his boots

and mittens.

the farm where he plowed

the fields

at 13.

pulled

lobsters from

their cages.

his eyes once

as blue

as the sea,

are weakened to a softer

hue, now.

a fair green,

still full of memory

but washed

and fading with what

his life had been.