Father

Cold, clear sky.
Orange twilight
set against thin blue
gives no warmth,
fades to yellow,
casts pink across
the day's end.

Sitting under this old tree,
its rough bark buried
in the flesh of my back,
the pain reminding me
of the cold, grey sky
a year ago, the drizzle
from the heavens, tears
of the family, place
of final rest. Grandsire
Floyd, another of your seed
has returned, for eternity,
no more the earth
to till, for the animals
to care, no cares,
no worries at all.

The smooth marble
grey as that cold day,
name and date
engraved forever
in memory and stone.
Sitting under this old tree
by my father's grave,
a simple truth
beats with the drum
of my heart:
a boy grows up
when his father dies.