I don't understand this poem.

While silence clamps down the poet
the father says: 
"I don't understand this poem".

Tightly fitted in the background
he is shriveled between the loud painting
and the misted-over window.
The kitche table between them is
at least 9 meters wide.
When his eyes are searching, she can't 
tell if he's distraught
or scared.
Or both.

When her father's mouth moves, 
and his words walk up the paths
he cut out for himself,
the poet thinks: "Show me the way
to your dark forest, or draw a map
that guides me to your paths".
She doesn't hear that her father
is asking her for the same.

Between two wavering mouths
it's raining distance.
Outside blows the darkness and inside

the father says: " I don't understand
this poem,
"it must be a good one".