Daughter of the poet, the bard of mountain folk, I read the work he left behind inked ghosts breathing through my hands. Editor, poetess, archivist of his soul, I bound his voice in amber so time could not erase him, so Henry might someday hear him. His name is a cathedral; mine, a whisper caught in the pews. I edited his thunder, while my own voice starved in the margins. How does a daughter sing when her father’s song still fills the valley, when every echo answers in his n