Jul/Aug 2011 Poetry |
Photo by Ann Ang
Tree
My father is walking me by the hand
Back from Leo Weitz's grocery store
A just opened pack of Lucky Strikes
Inserted in his white shirt breast pocket
A thread of smoke flowing behind him
As we slow our walk to hear a power
Saw Its thousand watt bee buzz to silence
Then a crack swoop to a thin quiet hissWe look down the street Where the maple was
Is Well Nothing Splash of air Wave of light
Billow of sound A pillar of shadow rises
Deep from the ground A few robins &
A single sparrow flutter circle Each
At a higher level As if they are
Searching for a nest
My father has crushed
His cigarette under his heel — Funny
To watch dead smoke vanish — & says to me
"There are other swings Jack & other
tree houses" "I know" I say "but it was
first base"
Later at night before sleep
I stare out the window at the tree that's
Not there that I can't see I keep saying
"It's not there" but it seems the tree still forms
A shape Down stairs from the porch I can smell
My father's Lucky Strike & up hill far
Beyond Weitz's grocery I can spy
The cathedral's white tower as a cloud
Passes overhead to unhide the moon