to revert to form this morning.
Out the window a redbud flares,

blooms purple as an Easter priest.
Geese over the roof not in a vee

but a bell curve, imploring the north.
I tried church again, what with

the kids, maybe some answers
from the velvet kneelers. The frogs,

will they sing this year? The prodigal
brother, will he? How to stave off

suffering? Pollen films the windshield
green, no yellow, inviting one

of my girls to finger-draw
a heart. This, too, will wash away

with the rain. Maybe it's water
keeps us going, keeps the future

the future, always finding the bottom
then cycling to sky, vaporized.

Joe next door digs a diversion trench
uphill from his granddad's deathbed.

Estranged, my father passed in Jersey,
skipping last rites and viaticum,

no chrism crossed above his eyes,
waiting for the horse chestnuts

bristling outside his window
to fall.