A wound is a blossom
but only to the living.
A May night, birdsong
before the first light pierces,
chirps out of blackness:
My daughter's angry at me
and her mother as I
was once angry at mine.
It's a way of crossing over.
I'm so tired now.
And my core's
all water, flowing
somewhere where the sea
can't find her. And neither
can I. How much longer
till I finally lose her? Where
is the first dawn wet blossom?
Who recalls how I touched
her mother once? Or many others?
How night is not always easy.
Nor are daughters. Nor are sons.
And how is it I've become a father
watching light sift slowly
into the daughterless dark.