The Making (2005)

Here in the days of seed
words turn back to soil
in a darkening gold forest.
On these late afternoons
the sky is so hard and blue
you can almost reach out
and cup the far indigoes.

The last leaves of the oaks
are whispers of that
approaching dark as they
unhook and fall,
each spiral so slow
and inexpressibly sure.

My father's stones
fling their long shadows
toward the pooling dusk.
They are sturdy enough
to survive the growing
winter stillness of his face.

So walk with him gratefully today,
son of all his making:
For that white season
that soon enough arrives
is like a page turned to cold moon,
more empty and frozen
and still than any night.

All trails grown over,
the stones muted back
to fertile mystery,
his smile among them
never to be seen again,
his making will become
all yours at last.

And then
what will you say
of those cold stones
that gleamed and danced
for him tonight
beneath the brilliant
harvest moon?