As Mourning Doves Persist

The yard is swathed in blossoms. Ornamental plum come full circle, its leaves like paper revisions discarded to this season with pale burgundy droplets falling. As if to sound breath’s arterial thread through the body’s old canals. This honey powder hint. Responsive in breeze. Transparent feeder empty against the tree where holiday lights remain in sunlight. Spark of what comes next.   Crab apple or apricot. Promise of patient daughter. Her pockets.     Yet as I watch this morning there is no one out there and no picking yet except to spy the subtler pigments – pink and white and hint of tan peering from the tips of tributaries. One branch you’ve tied together at a bend as if we know something of grafting. Or, simply, set out to repair what’s gone absent with brittle memory. 

1. Where does the boy end and man begin? From hurdle runner and high dive lifeguard to yoga, low to the beach. 50s flat top gives way to bellbottom 60s and a 70s home overrun with blonde toddlers. Boot straps to Birkenstocks, and still, that timeless Methodist collection plate and Golden Rule remain a wafer in your blood, father. 2. You tried to teach me arithmetic once and yet, what we discovered together was a rock and roll song, a highway where everything got done. 3.  Think calculus, in thigh high waders against the cold. Casting out into the sun drench, deducing change where man ends and the boy begins again.