I.M. Andrew Wells (April 8, 1936-October 25, 2012)

THE POETRY IN HIM

The poetry in him’s not hard to miss—

Lear’s Kent, steady servant, taking cover

when cynics stormed the stage, but never

hiding out. No lies in him, his honest

talk not florid, stripped of artifice

and ornament. Plain. Don’t take his silence

for indifference, don’t mistake it for a lack

of love, nor his boxer’s skill for violence,

his aptitude with axe and saw and maul

for bloodlust. Flawed? Yes, but what he hacked

apart he raised into a home, a small

solid shield against impending weather,

and at its heart a Jøtul blazing hot.

My father was not a man who said a lot.