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.