Or the time after the war
my father walked the horse and plow
several miles to the north side of town
and another farm to do a job
for two dollars —
that plow there behind the house,
surrounded by next year’s bluebells,
if you can imagine them —
or him, smiling at his good fortune
and at the vineyard beyond —
less one brother.
Or just the other day,
when I found a butterfly clinging to a leaf,
testing a damaged wing.
And how are you these days?
What joy, what solace, what peace do you bring?
Categories: First Publication