Among Hickories ©

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written April 16th, 2012
For my father


The spring has not advanced far enough
To have clothed every tree, so that among
The bright green children of mid-April,
There still remain these delicate skeletons,
December cadavers, standing without mourners,
These old dear patriarchs
Croaking their old stories
To the current looters of the morning’s gold.

They make us think of our own aging fathers,
And teach us, again, to savor the gaunt as true,
Those tired stories repeated without context,
Simply because their branches once leafed out
A folklore now swept bare by winter’s rout.

Here is a glass whose black cracks slowly spider
Their crooked phrases through indifferent air.
You may address the mirror, but do so gently,
For accusations will extend the breakage.
You may approach, but do so like a hunter,
Whose tracks repeat, with stealth, those of his prey.

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