by Cornelia Rohde“This poem informs
the hurt ear wary
of noises, and sings
to the weeping eye…”
When my father can no longer speak,
his eloquent blue eyes hold me
clear, as the sea around his island home,
intent, as the great horned owl
watching from the hollow hickory
in the woods we walked together.
Filled with his gaze,
I leave my place beside him,
to weep wild like a child
for the past.