Father

By: Kristal Peace

More and more
Often now,

The oak tree in the center of
Our yard inexplicably

Begins to weep. Every day, for two weeks,
Its branches sag, and its leaves cascade

To the ground, like the stream
Of a waterfall, drenching the entire lawn. But

It is Summer, not Autumn. We don’t know why
Our oak tree is so sad. Sometimes,

The profusion of leaves is so great
That the lawn is nearly invisible; every blade

Of grass almost drowns in the desert of
The oak tree’s grief: shade overtaking light. It is

As if the usually stable, upbeat, loving
Tree has lost interest in growing

Leaves, producing acorns,
Supporting its birds:

Living. It suddenly finds
Pleasure in

Nothing.
And just as inexplicable

As the oak tree’s bog of
Grief is the sudden,

Mysterious wind that comes
And picks up the wept leaves, carries

Them away, and with them the oak tree’s
Melancholy. We know the wind is

Responsible for this because as soon as
The wind whisks away the sheet

Of symmetrical green tears
On the lawn, the oak tree stops weeping, lifts

Its branches to bask in the sun, produces
Acorns, and shelters and comforts

Its birds, until
Its grief returns, without warning,

A few weeks later. We wish
We could summon the wind

At will.