Things that arrive
Owlless Under Spring
Owlless under spring, the stars telling all,
nothing held back in the blackness. My
father visits again, in his usual way five
years after we buried him in Rose Hills.
He doesn’t say much, as usual, but I
listen anyway as he commandeers the
voices of nightbirds, mimics communication
through every single misunderstood one.
“I’m sorry,” he might be saying. Or, “Please
forgive me,” insisting again. I thought he might
have asked if I remember him at all, or why I’ve
yet to visit there where he lies beside his mother.
These are the things that arrive owlless under
spring, the reticulated cosmos whirring violently
above belying its placid demeanor of beauty, of
succoring interest, of care or passing concern.
So I find my place there, pick out a starset spot
to lift my feet and lean into a thirst I never knew
I had. There, perhaps, or there within the stinger
of my starsign so the poisons may thrive in the light.
April 18, 2010