Tuesday, May 01, 2012

a poem for Mike

My Husband Burns the Yard Waste After His Father Dies

The Fire Marshall came, looked, shook his head, nope.
Seventy-five feet from any structure. Not possible in this yard.
Then he turned on a half-wink, sniffed the breeze, said,
Nice spot for a little camp fire.

All morning my husband stands with it, the burning.
He stares, like one does, into the fire
until the winds shift in his direction
and his eyes begin to water.

Safe Passage, Ray. July 28, 1931 - April 28, 2012   


Rita said...

Safe passage, indeed.

Daryl Edelstein said...

... may he rest in peace

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