I went back to my father’s house –
The old maple tree out front is dying
The one I studied from my bedroom window
A hardened face where the limb’s been sawed off
The old maple tree out front is dying
Bark mottled gray, as if struck by lightning
The one I studied from my bedroom window
I can’t remember my father as well as I remember that tree
Lichen-petrified, ash gray, as if lightning-struck
The house is empty, for sale again
I can’t remember my father as well as I remember
The sloped branch across the transom window
The house is empty, for sale again
Leaves once supple green in spring or burnt red-cold in autumn
Shadows sloping across the transom window
In photos before they had us —
Supple, young, burning –
A tree of a man, golden-brown curls
In photos before they had us —
He looked right through that camera
Bare-faced, ringed in golden-brown curls
The tree stood there too the year that he died
He looked clear through the camera Already
a ghost to me
The tree held its green
That cold week in late August
Already a ghost
While we packed what little we wanted
Cold already, late August, the green held
We threw the rest to the curb
Packed what little we wanted
Piled one garbage bag after another at the trunk
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