He remembered autumn in the garden.
Autumn’s smell of woodsmoke.
The small boy feels valued,
of worth, in helping his father:
A much flawed man, but his father nonetheless.
His father did much in those brief days,
Showed the boy how to be.
And now whenever he smells woodsmoke
Or thinks of brown-leaved autumn
He remembers those times,
And sometimes cries in secret.
For I also am flawed.
And each time, my Father above,
Who is not flawed but perfect, without fault,
Pours pure gold into my own flaws
And polishes me up.