Though riddled with cancer, my dad finally gave up the anti-everything drugs that had so addled his brain. His thoughts were clear for the first time in months. Ten days before he died, he and I wrote our only poem together; he finished what I had begun: Of Two Hearts A poem is born of wordless art wrapped faintly round its bearers heart. He contemplates how best to share the feelings gently pulsing there. Neath jumbled words and scattered rhyme his heart beats metronomic time. As life then flows from heart to hand the poet pens his verse again. This heart that yearns to share its verse finds that it has a soul to nurse - that needs its message put to pen. Thus art, once wordless, strongly speaks - It comes to life with eager peaks and shares its authors heart again. Don't know why my dad has weighed so heavily on my heart the last few days, but sharing him feels good. Thank you all for the opportunity.