(Springfield)

My father was too weak to parry the blade

as death's scythe swept through the house one night

as we were busy doing other things,

dust filled his mouth and stopped his breath,

and darkness took his soul in this familiar place...



His body, wasted by the sickness,

his spirit weary from the battle,

he spoke to me, forever his son,

of all things save death:

I longed to face it with him,

but seeing his fear,

I feared to speak of it.



And though we both saw death's dark irresistable form

in the far corner,

we talked instead of evening shadows

on bedroom walls.



And so it went.

There were no proud and profound last words,

no bright ringing final moment of clarity.

He just died.

We kissed his still warm face

and promised forever...



The cold wind blew through the trees in my father's yard,

and I looked for meaning.