Apart for years, we
meet,
old friends catching up.
We walk out, the field
spangled with grasshoppers,
cricket song, myriads of
butterflies in the Queen
Anne's lace and chicory,
a garden snake weaving
through the daisies.
You point to a wooden
cross, your father's name
engraved in the crossbeam,
a bouquet of meadow grasses
in an old amber bottle.
You cannot talk of his
death in a brush fire,
how the fire spread
to the broomsage, swept
across the field so fast
not even a buck could
outrun it. I recall his
laughing face, his teasing.
Close behind his face,
the face of the boy on
the school bus. One evening,
he pulled my hair, called
me Red, laughed at my fury.
Next morning came news of
his trauma. Set to watch
a brush fire, he poked
sapling branches as boys
will. One flipped, sparks
shot out, caught his shirt.
New overalls and lace-up
boots doomed him to months
in hospital, swaddled in gauze.
We pluck wildflowers, place
them in the bottle, speak of
earth, breeze, fragrance,
the only words we can say.
