The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Burgi Zenhaeusern
He died in October, our sadness was fleeting, and so was the peace, pictures in a shelved album. My father had orphaned his anger.—
It's April now, and somehow they've done it again—stiff and spidery limbs—despite the upheavals: shocks of bloom, or timid fuzz.
Who knows if he hoped to avoid his death just long enough, if fear and pain ate his time to act. Sadness could be found in that
perhaps. Except, he left his charge with us, live wire corralling his memory, these trees he would have admired. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |