PATRIMONY
From my
leisurely Sunday morning
I see how a
blackbird stubbornly tugs
until the
worm admits it’s dispatched.
A hundred
times the blackbird must
have hopped
past my father’s eyes
as he
pushed the spade into the soil,
his
shoulders hunched,
his
half-smiling lips tighter
than in
former years.
Now that I
know him,
am an
eldest daughter,
he silently
produces a word
that has to
do with pruning,
not putting
dahlias in vases
but letting
them last in the ground
for a whole
season,
retaining
their shape in tubers.
Procreated
by chance,
I think,
and watch the blackbird’s
cautious,
patient stance.
To see the original, go to here
No comments:
Post a Comment