by Laine Derr
Like a red-faced warbler,
he stumbles across our yard.
A father I rarely see, images
of dappled light mark a face
familiar, like a morning mirror,
eyes singing a summer song –
I come from a jagged line
of men who leave
their wives on sunny days,
kids playing in yards
newly mowed, tortoise
or hare, my poem ends
the same, a child
waiting for one seldom
seen like a bird molting fire.