For Your Father

In summer you promised
Pictures for remembering,
In dirt, wood and oil.
You told me stories,
Burro backed and barefooted,
You remembered names.

But you would not fight
With me, or work your cactus
Garden; your tools unsharpened
In the hands that borrowed,
And promised to be returned
Sometime early autumn.

In winter I will
Hate myself for allowing
The thought of you crying.
Nothing  pacifies.
Remove this rattle and let
Silence take this child.

In spring he will say,
Arms stretched wide, my ear to his
Round, naked belly,
“For willful flowers,
I will be infinitely
Tender and patient.”