Annual Due Date

The winter sunlight exposes
window smudges and
dusty countertops, and later

snow falls so slowly
it appears to be rising
in the moonlight, like

something I’m unaware of
still governing me
and causing arrhythmia,

an apology always on the tip
of my tongue and problems
with verisimilitude

buried deep while she stands
in the forest with just-washed hair,
understanding loss,

waving above with her hand
a speck of a speck and my son
of a hundred years ago

using a finger gun to tell me
to put my heart in the bag so
the hurt can find a purpose.

Antitwilight

I love and fear sunsets
with my son; I run east while still
looking west, too slow
to ditch inevitable shadows.

Eventually snow will come
and he knows
I hide from that too,
desperate for ballgames

to continue as I search
for more time, more light,
scorekeeping the intangibles
of our sky’s pink and purples.

The answers require meditation
and thousands of renegade details
tied together tightly with yarn,
as if fatherhood is a bundle of sticks

to toss on the future fire
selectively, as the late autumn
breeze comes in and an old man
needs a little warmth.