For you dad. I still am crying. Mourning, morning…
I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.
That’s what I like about disappointment
the way it slows you down
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
goes dead calm.
And the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.
She played the flute, he played the the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn
or her father died before she told him
that one, most important thing…
and everything got still____ …