Where the Dead Go
       

Snow petals ghost
the northern wind.

Among wild plums
my father's face kites

in wickerwork limbs
gray-eyed, trapped,

no escape as trains
huff roadside tracks.

Within twist of this,
a chill flounce.

Beneath     below     within
where does he anchor?

Tweet

Copyright © 2020 Denise Low All rights reserved
from Shadow Light
Red Mountain Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission