Mountain Turn-out: Week After My Father’s Funeral

In the ghost-smoke of eight thousand feet, 
the road back looks deserted. 
Below me, a hawk rises, 
wings throbbing stillness, and I watch 
until it turns into nothing I can see— 
so much lit sky 
the eyes water and sting. 
Some days, things hurt more: birds vanishing,
mountains of pine turned thatch 
by distance, the leave-taking we want, 
wonder over, regret. 

For miles I have felt like a child, 
powerless and guilty. 
I want to see a field 
black with soil, just plowed 
and glistening; my father’s back 
sweat-soaked, and his sorrel team. 
If it rained now, I would stay out 
until my skin was rinsed and shining. 

On the northwest rim, a lowering sun 
gilds the tree line, 
the sky agulf of amber glass … 
such saturated brilliance 
I want to shatter it with a stone, 
sink long into some sweet, dark acreage.