I trace the image of my father’s tear
On the smoothed oak,
The wild grass, rising.
Our hands, lying beside.
The plum tree sways, languidly,
And for the first time,
We listen to the bullfrogs croon
Their washing-board blues,
Until the porch swing begins to creak
Under the weight of our silence.
Your lips divide
Me from the time
I sat watching
My bedroom mirror,
Holding onto butterflies.