Epicedium to Potter’s Field

My father was

A blossom,

And I was his fragile

Epiphyte on his

Days off.

The purple

Dogs of years

Gone by

Watch him smile

At the horizon.

His feretory

Catches the

Rain from the

Smoldering sky.

These fields are

Fallow and dried

Gullies where gin

Sparkled

In the morning.

My father’s remains

Are smooth like the

Starlight that

Makes my life

Slightly yellow.

Source: Poetry (November 2015)