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.

Burgi Zenhaeusern writes and translates in Chevy Chase, MD. She has been published in Gargoyle.