Brave Men

I have come today to visit my father.
There are many who consider him a man most grave.
But if you know him as I did, like flowers
his love did grow for friends, strong as an oak.
He was a man of his age. He worked, hands in the dark,
until dusk, forehead speckled with sweat droplets.

I think I remember most well the droplets
dripping in the cylinder hanging by Father
as he lay, struggling. His eyes, like dirt,
stained by pain, seemed fixed on the grave
of his father. He told me once of the oak
that was his sign post across a field stripped of flowers.

There is a cruelty to the gift of flowers –
real ones, not imposters – petals like honey droplets
brimming with life. But they are not strong oak
but soft, easily crushed, seeming t mock my father
with their fragile life. Nurses, Doctors, look grave
as they whispered condolences that filled my mouth with dirt.

My mother still plants things in the dirt
where once his hands bled for red flowers
that brought light to her face, no longer stone grave.
My hand darts fast, casting away droplets
that well on my lashes as I look. Father,
tell me again the story of brave men, steel, and the oak?

Once, he built me a treehouse in the oak
overlooking the eastern hills of cold brown dirt.
His voice broke when he asked me if he was a good father
when he snuck me sweets. Syrupy, sugared flowers
that melted on my tongue into warm droplets.
Yes, I said, hush now. No relief, only eyes grave.

There is a special place we put his grave.
Beside brave men, beneath shade of Oak.
I feel a tap, and look up to Sky’s tear droplets
as it cries with me. Beneath my knees, dirt
becomes mud. I place them carefully. Flowers
I brought, I raised, proud, to show Father.

Now spattered with droplets is his stone grave,
slapping above Father, sliding down Oak.
But, up from the dirt will Autumn bloom new flowers.