Oak
       

The old oak is our father
coming home late at night,
turning his key in the door,
leaving it off the latch.

The leaves are still falling.
I hear his slippered footsteps
shuffle on the stairs, scuff
along boards. He stifles

a cough opening my door
and releases the catch
from the window, taking
my breath as the curtains

mushroom. A pattern
of webbed branches frames
the moon. His great shadow
bows low and creaks

down the years, pressing his
whiskered cheeks to my brow,
whispering good night.
The old oak swishes and moans,

low mutterings meander
through the house. The wind
brushes my face, the sound
of leaves patting the pane.

The moon is in the wind
and the wind is in the bough
and the bough is in the door
that our father leaves open.

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Copyright © 2017 Adam Wyeth All rights reserved
from The Art of Dying
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission