father poem

distance is further, unreachable stretches,

of ink stained shores there is slow in stride

a soot-silhouetted figure wades thru imaginary

summers, tongues of last year’s september

all but faded in wreathes and evening dirges,

waist high is grief it leans like granite

that fattened moon flared whilst swollen

gives gaze and makes silver surroundings

enough to make ghostly and shadows living,

please if you will glance back at the son, his

grief-see-thru-as-a-pane, the soul’s swept

weathers delves arrival deeply, where -

the sunlit honeycomb weeps a continuous bleed

a silvery light distant follows what i thought

was him passed the slanted barn upheaved

and spoken to by the wind, no tree is root

enough to have him stay, up over as if floating

to the brow of the hill that looks like a hand,

moon-hid-beyond its scarves of cloud, stood there-

like

a solemn gesture

like a goodbye

like a breath that

decides quiet,

then gone