To My Father on the Anniversary of His Death

What a grizzly day, gray and drizzly,
sky the same drained uncolor as your deathbed face,

today’s light stuck on the other side
of a dense cloud dome baffling the March-third sun:

I fill clear glass vases with daffodils
cut while wandering the yard and neighborhood.

their stems green blurs inside my hands,
their petals like flimsy flames barely lighting the way

as I look for you, or the memory of you,
anywhere in the deep late winter of this underworld.

Michael McFee

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