The Innisfree Poetry Journal
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.
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