Nov 132013
 
To sit in the absent father's solemn chair,
Grey with flowers, that he left behind
Is to sit again in the absent father's lap.

So, too, to take up his tapping pipe
And to puff long thoughts all the purple afternoon
Is to rekindle the father's mind amid his ashen grave.

Notice, the pollarded oaks grow more nobly
For their nicks.  So, too, like velvet antlers wetted,
Green thoughts effloresce from your pained brow.

Your brow which is "so like your father's
At your age."  Or would be, were comparison possible
In the August evening's lingering light, eons on

From father's final step through the cool foyer door
Where, in a corner, his ratty umbrella leans unmolested--
Abstract blacks cordially folded like a spider,

Cobwebbed in the shadowless light of stars.

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