In the quiet corners of a northern home,
Where shadows play with light’s gentle roam,
A poet’s mind was gently shaped,
By parents’ hands, their love unscathed.
His father’s books lined the silent walls,
Whispering worlds where imagination calls,
A treasury of thoughts, grand and vast,
Guiding his son through the present and past.
A mother’s warmth, her tender care,
Filled the air with love, beyond compare,
Her nurturing spirit, soft and bright,
Guided his heart through darkest night.
Together they formed a complex weave,
Their influences in every word heâd conceive,
A legacy of love, both tender and grand,
In every poem, their spirits stand.