Dad

(a poem about John D. Lillis and his work
by his daughter, Erin B. Lillis)


They call him quiet but his mind attunes.
A Druid priest, at twilight, tracing runes.
His mega-pixels, set to five, detect
a magical shadow and flare effect.
The wide-brimmed hat, with feather-trim, shades eyes
that see the spirits in the sunset skies.
It could be memories, tugging at his mind,
of lovely plains with graceful winds that wind.
A windless highway now. His camera zooms.
A Shaman vision under smokey blooms.
He trips the shutter once then pulls away.
Could he be hearing the old pony bray?
Subliminal connections turn his head.
That flower is familiar. Subtle red
with orange-flecked hues. He checks his ASA
and frames the flames that licked at cracking clay.
And when his camera is finally full
he thinks he catches glimpse of Sitting Bull.
The uploads to his drive at home reveal
that whisperings he heard were truly real
and soon he’ll follow ghostly guides on screen
and trace a profiled wolf in one new scene.
His tools of old, maybe, were wood and flint.
His weapons now are archive inks and print.