Photo: Brian Federle, Overcast in Oregon
…on the 40th anniversary of my father’s death
When I last saw you
Your hands were clenched
With a rage foreign to your voice
And you were rushing inward
Away from the moon, beyond the glowing
Of my grief.
Yet on my way home
I saw the moon rise.
Where have you gone, then, If not
to that land behind the moon?
In the emptiness above the earth
In the terrific clashing of jet with atmosphere
I heard your new voice
I saw your new hands
Tearing at the cold, hurtling steel,
Casting off silk shroud
For dark soil
And even darker rivers.
If stars loom too large
Is not my window too small?