Riverlight Poem by Frank Stanford
Riverlight
My father and I lie down together.
He is dead.
We look up at the stars, the steady sound
Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan.
This is our home.
I remember the work in him
Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost.
And I imagine the way he had fear,
The ground turning dark in a rain.
Now he gets up.
And I dream he looks down in my eyes
And watches me die.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 9:52:21 PM # 1.0.0.1119
