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For my father
A scarlet oak blazing in autumn above the woolen hats we rebirthed from a box marked 'winter' Chlorophyll ceding to carotenoid ending, as if to begin.
In summer's innocence I swam under the oaks and madrones fingertips gently paddling downstream among compatriot green leaves set free upriver, broken off after July rain.
This hearthplace fire will quiet into winter stenciling its sleep in wide arms, backdropped by snow as watchful cardinal eyes offer a remnant of this red autumn moment.
And will fall always return? The chemo seems to be working minus some aches and vertigo. Inside late November wind and rain, I know even the great oak looks tired.
I will hold winter in my mittened hand thank the wool on my head
wear the frigid redness on my nose like a jersey, united with the Cardinal, whose quick tilt of crest has seen this all before.I'll notice the seed the bird's beak holds as it departs our shared gaze, for motion.
Upward cascades of plume returning to sky that same sky, now expanding inside me where all seasons find home.
Ben Graham
