For My Father, 1934-1990

Have you noticed, then, that sound moves 
differently in fall—such falling 
of leaves, a fall 
from warmth and 
            pleasure 
into slower life, and old patterns— 
and the sound, too, falls 
in clear waves, so much clarity in the sound of bells
from a school and the brush of dry leaves so 
powerful that I step reverent, 
through these battering bells 
these dead leaves and 
the distant pulse of the sun 
falling, shrinking. 

I walk through the square late and anxious 
and you step beside me taking my arm 
as you sometimes did 
to tell me something; 
that this fall is yours 
with the pleasures of clear sound, 
bells that call to old books and dialogue, small windows
circumspect with ivy. 
But you chose this time of urgent sound 
to leave, 
hands upturned 
in a final gesture of amusement 
at the presence of geese and corn, 
and the leaves that scream 
hectic color into the non-light 
of dead suns. 
And when you come to me now, it is in 
a clear plastic bag—soft leather shoes, 
faded oatmeal sweater, cut up the back, your wallet—
this is just loose change

from a scattered life 
engraved with a message but not speaking. 

And if you came again, there is not much I could tell you,
except for this: 

peace is not a soft cloud 
that makes solitude from isolation or 
reverence from fear 
peace is a hot knife that 
easily slides through skin and bones. 
Peace is not in your white, still face 
or in the cold hands that now lie folded 
on your chest, hiding the long thin scar, 
your embarrassment 
but it is in the moan of the widow 
who must now leave you there, 
alone in your room 
and find life in the autumn that is sweet, 
find that there is sound from where you are. It rolls through fall air, 
maybe like a slow chant, 
but more like soft, dead leaves.