Sonnet for Papa
I think of you and tendrils of despair
entwine my heart. It chokes and gasps for breath
and yet I know your cold chair remains bare –
will stay that way. How personal is death?
It never knew you like I did and yet
it came. Attacked. Left stone that aged and cracked
and weeds that sprout, transcend, can’t pay the debt
to bring you back and so they grown and smack
your grave. Ensnare my heart. Wind fiercely blows
as in a winter storm. Summer has fled
and buds no longer tinge, ceasing to grow.
I have to face the fact that you are dead.
Occasionally, chirping birds bring hope
and gnarled branches reach down toward your grave.
