Everyone’s father dies,
snow melts in February
sometimes and the robin
We are left with place names
we have not been. Stories, too,
we will no longer hear, poems, essays,
the vocabulary of socialism, and paths.
You can see the space between the rooms,
stray hair curled and gray,
under an old oak chest.
In a dream a father turns to you,
smiling, his arms opening,
opening, and when you wake,
you are no longer crying.
Michael H. Brownstein