Pastures green to the edge of the pond,
what my father knew, what I know now,
I trade on his reverence for the sacred land,
no facade and, to our eyes, no end.
Fish barely stirring, no anglers in sight,
the retracted gleam of a high sky,
early in the day, a cool surface rising,
a sweeping wind for the dark’s remains.
Everything calm as a man’s explanation
for why he loves soil, this underfoot swain
that returned his affection, from first harvest
to burial, from life to death, to my way forward.
Catching up on last days, eyes to the beginning,
everything lush in its blueness, its greenness,
where the old wooden house once stood,
a meeting-ground of shadows.
I am among family who are not here,
in rooms and yard invisible to all but the imagination:
a yard, a garden, a study, an open door.
I would turn on a light if it weren’t so bright already.
Dark attic, Cool cellar. Tree house.
Makeshift swing. Kitchen table. Veranda rocker.
You would never know that I am
standing in the middle of a parking lot.
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