The Meadow

In the meadow this afternoon, I fetch

any number of crazy memories. That 

undertaker asking my mother did she 

want to buy the entire suit to bury my dad in,

or just the coat? I don’t 

have to provide the answer to this,

or anything else. But, hey, he went

into the furnace wearing his britches.

This morning I looked at his picture.

Big, heavyset guy in the last year

of his life. Holding a monster salmon

in front of the shack where he lived 

in Fortuna, California. My dad.

He’s nothing now. Reduced to a cup of ashes,

and some tiny bones. No way

is this any way 

to end your life as a man.

Though as Hemingway correctly pointed out,

all stories, if continued far enough,

end in death. Truly.

Lord, it’s almost fall.

A flock of Canada geese passes

high overhead. The little mare lifts 

her head, shivers once, goes back 

to grazing. I think I will lie down

in this sweet grass. I’ll shut my eyes

and listen to wind, and the sound of wings.

Just dream for an hour, glad to be here

and not there. There’s that. But also

the terrible understanding 

that men I loved have left

for some other, lesser place.