I do not ask. I breathe
and the drenched spruces drip
drops, fresh circles within spreading rings
radiate in hypnotic grace
across the pond's dim mirror. I breathe
in, welcome the air thrust from the eternal wind.
I do not ask why
the rain heavy Columbine dips
to brush the earth, sheds crystal beads
hung like glistening tears from the storm's dark eye.
My father who loved old oaks and sunsets,
fresh picked sweet corn and overripe peaches,
died in a sparse white room, void of human blush,
of even the faintest pink of dusk. As the last wind
leaves, swirling its pale petals of light, there is nothing to ask.