on the anniversary of his death

On this day
with sky, not sky,
but more like soil
sinking into lungs,

You decide to visit
as a sparrow,
dark earthen stripes
shooting lightning shrill
across your head,
then racing, as summer,
along your wings.

Not content
to sit and peer
into the window’s mirror,
you chat small
bird news
to those beyond

And tilt your bead
eyes into my room,
throat opening up
to tell of ice
and hard, rich pellets
ant-sealed
within the feeder’s varnish,

Of how one boxelder bug
stops to lure
with fiery wings,
propped safe inside,
within a flowerpot.

You stop
and lift a ray
of snow
into your throat
and dip, small curtsy,
into its minute puddle,

Then hop toward me,
as if glass
can be broken
between night and day,
between light and dread,
between drifts
and soothing water,

Between me and you,
this year-old day,
to be together,
Father.