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.