Courtesy of Jon_CF/Flickr.
The air above this man-made
reservoir turns violent
pink each afternoon. This is a tune
on a guitar I can barely
play. I’ve built
a forest of grief and you
aren’t allowed in.
Fifteen miles from my childhood
home, water still waits
in Osage Pond. Carrots grow
in the garden my mother
abandoned, even beyond
the fence, but the penny-sized frogs
have disappeared. My mind
reaches into my father’s
coffin and finds just silence. I’m sure
that owl on the telephone
pole has nothing to do with me.
I used to dream
my father left me
by accident in our yellow canoe.
I’d wake to
the rhythm of waves
carrying me farther
and farther from shore.