The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Burgi Zenhaeusern

April Trees

He died in October, our sadness

was fleeting, and so was the peace,

pictures in a shelved album. My father

had orphaned his anger.ā€”


It's April now, and somehow

they've done it againā€”stiff and spidery

limbsā€”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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