He cast his vote with steady hand,
A choice he claimed was just and planned.
He grasped the toll, the ache, the sting,
Yet clung to faith the man was king.
He’d heard the taunts, the bitter cries,
The voices spitting hollow lies.
He knew they scorned the ones who strive
To track the storms, to keep us alive.
Yet still he chose the gilded name,
Believing strength would cleanse the blame,
That power’s roar could heal the scar
Of shuttered mills and fading towns.
“He’s flawed,” he said, “but he won’t forget
The factory gates they closed and set.
He speaks for us, the cast aside,
The ones they mock, the ones they hide.”
I turned from him, my heart torn wide,
While years my husband faced the tide,
A scientist, patient, worn, and wise,
Who faced their jeers yet tracked the skies.
He mapped the winds, he warned of floods,
His toil a shield for fields and dust.
His warnings fell like whispered pleas,
Drowned out by rage and certainty.
Yet those in power turned their backs,
They spurned his warnings, cut his tracks.
My father watched, yet turned away,
To smoke and clay that promised pride,
A man who swore the hurt would die.
Our calls grew short, our words turned thin,
The laughter lost, the warmth worn dim.
Birthdays passed with cards unsigned,
And silence crept like creeping vines.
But still I see him pause and stare
At headlines, mills in rust laid bare.
His hand clenched tight, his breath a rasp,
As if to cage regret and grasp.
The workers lost, the trust betrayed,
His dreams unspooled, now ash and frayed.
He does not speak the words out loud,
But I can see him bent and bowed,
The load of pride, the price of lies,
The flicker fading in his eyes.
And still I write, and still I call,
I reach through silence, past the wall.
For love holds firm, though bridges burn;
I wait for when, or if, he’ll turn.
