Woodrow Wilson Whidden, Senior
My father did not smell of manly sweat.
He smelled of loyalty. He smelled of faith
And dedication. His idea of debt
Was what he owed to family, wife, love, faith,
And sons. An elder in a tiny church,
He sat behind the pastor; did not smell
Of holiness. As straight as one white birch,
He lived his righteousness as clear as bell
Notes, carillon chimes from the tall Bok tower
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Across the Florida he loved. His white
Was more like thunderheads, perhaps. His power
It’s a miracle how one short sonnet can capture the essence of a man long dead. Thank you for bringing Woodrow back to life for me today.