Previously published in 2 River Review
Ohio’s fields raised him like corn
sold down on the corner
where barefoot Amish children
worship dirt with wonder.
At 91, his breath is beatific and
silent as a saint. Grief
in its grandest form
has not summoned my tears.
I know there are memories
the throat would rather swallow,
which is why my tongue will
river all his words.
If Autumn is when graves
ask trees to do their make-up
he’ll make me his longest summer.
I will run the lights.
