Sunday, February 15, 2004
copeland morris MIDWINTER
Or tasted the time remaining?
Your father standing like a grand tree
In the photograph in the forest. You recognize
Midwinter with all its whiteness. Here
He never sighs with disappointment. Streams
Of spangled snow come through his branches.
The snow builds up on his fingers,
The last of the color as you close his eyes.
You already imitate his secret gaze
And reach with outspread arms and fingertips.