Your cracked knuckles will never heal;
they know the grip of the hammer too well.
Yet you’ve stopped to cradle the hot cup of coffee
I brought. The woman you married thirty-five years ago
will not return, will not sing again, although
she washes your thermos, watches us
from the kitchen window. Shall I fill the vase?
Pick a color, Father; and I will search Amodios
and Nabels, bird nests, the buckets stacked
in the garage, our own overgrown yard.
I will rake the topsoil, pick out slivers of glass,
wood and rock, for you.
