Family – Page 13 – Iron Haiku

staring at the floor
scuffed and worn beneath my seat
from those in my shoes
–
dawn breaks-
outside the
waiting room

all I have of you-
the crossword and a ring left
by your coffee cup
–
saplings-
rooted
in the shade

looking back in time
pictures of who we once were
under cellophane
–
rich brown soil-
an old green tin
a child’s treasure

the lobsterman’s wife
watching the lighthouse at the
dying of the day
–
silent passage-
darkening water
laps the shore

underneath my bed
photos of my childhood
slowly fading lies
–
an old cigar box-
sacred relics
of my youth

his paper thin skin
stretched across arthritic hands
so easily bruised
–
a spreading elm-
our initials
overgrown

family outings
picnics paid for with the blood
of fallen soldiers
–
small flags-
dates carved
in cold granite

clouds out ash and dust-
the soil of this arid land
affords no purchase
–
orange skies-
rivers of black glass
plunge into the sea

the wind at your face
sundress flowing out behind
tight against your breast
–
out favorite elm-
your hair spilled
across my chest

canadian geese
on the way to warmer climes-
cloudless autumn sky
–
mottled light-
kits in their den
below the forest floor