Tuesday Poem

Epicedium to Potter’s Field

My father was
A blossom,
And I was his fragile
Epiphyte on his
Days off.
The purple
Dogs of years
Gone by
Watch him smile
At the horizon.
His feretory
Catches the
Rain from the
Smoldering sky.
These fields are
Fallow and dried
Gullies where gin
In the morning.
My father’s remains
Are smooth like the
Starlight that
Makes my life
Slightly yellow.