Popsy

 
Most years on November 10th, I find myself plunking out a rapid poem of sorts for dad, usually in the space of a minute or two. I don't polish them or question what comes to mind. It's a small way to mark his life as years pass. 

Twelve

A dozen years, 

like the dozen children I hoped
for, like the fresh, brown eggs
I cracked this morning,
like the months of each year, 

like

no time at all. 

Eleven Years

My father once brought me an oriole's nest
That wind had
Torn from its tether.
It still hangs in our hall--
A deflated balloon, bereft
Of all but dust and cobwebs, just as
We are bereft of him.