 The first poem I wrote and showed to anyone when I was 12, and it was a terrible poem about dew on the grass. But I showed it to my father, and he framed it and put it on his desk. And since all writers have a great ego, that just started me on my way. So this poem isn't necessarily about your father, but it seems to be. I'd say it is. Okay. Bringing in the sheaves. Yes. Mm-hmm.