Departing blackbirds thought our home was rest this year,
Settling in great swarms to blanket backyard trees
And giving further burden to the heavy heads of sunflowers,
Which were, at last, too bent to face the sun,
And which the many birds stripped bare,
A pointillism brought to life by need.
Last week the stars shone hard and bright,
With force that only winter air allows.
Orion lay propped on his elbows, the Dog curled near,
And I stood below, a single spot of ink among the multitude.
This morning I walked toward dawn
And did not see it for what it was,
Thinking in error that the shaft of white was a neighbor
Out for who-knows-what at five o'clock.
Today, like a flock of birds, my sister's husband and his kin
Will swoop upon a yellow house, and their weight will ease a burden.
The air will smell of diesel fuel, the fallen leaves, and new snow,
A potent mix to make one crave cold water and saltines,
A rising incense in mid-November to resurrect my father.
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November doesn't know what to do with itself. In the space between all the endings and all the beginnings, I, too, find myself turning in blank circles. In my calendar today, November 10th-- "Dad."
Everyone's right. Grief changes, and we change with it, but it doesn't end. It's not something to cross off a list and leave behind. I guess, instead, it's something that forces clumsy poetry first thing in the morning.
