Todd Davis draws tight parallels between the world of trees and the world of humans.
—
A Sunday Walk with Father
Late November,
often dark and smudged
underfoot, closes with ice
and fog.
Under the black walnut,
rime rides up over branches;
hoarfrost licks yellowing
grass, webs soil white, slips
its covering upon my head,
while upon your face, two-day old
beard shows like early snow.
On this Sunday,
we have walked to our woodlot,
beyond harvested fields and dimly lit barns,
to spread our arms round ash, to embrace,
our limbs notching, knotting,
so when they cut us,
fell this ash
near the aging stream,
they will see in the ring that marks
your sixty-second year,
all that was wooden,
all that was lovely,
burning in November fires.
***
Editor’s Note: Todd Davis has shared many poems with us. Browse his work here.
Originally published in Ripe (Bottom Dog Press, 2002)
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Photo by CIA DE FOTO /Flickr