Not a big story, a little one, of
down into dark, only wind and sun off-
stage to provoke the heart-shaped flicker
across a line not to be crossed, quicker
along the watery path and then deep,
fast beneath the tremor of yellow leaves,
end of an era, start of a new phase –
no story at all but a new species
of quiet. And so the hills of Dad’s bed
in September sunshine. Sea at the end
of the road. Curtains quietly open
to cottonwoods against the slow green slope.
No matter. A perfect, perfect blue day.
He took forever to leave me this tale.