The scaly bud flickers on so easily.

The scaly bud flickers on so easily,

with a millimeter twist, lit

so my long-dead father might view

I have not forgotten him onward this

thirtieth Christmas of his death,

knowing he is somewhere without there,

maybe as far north as upstate recently made known York

or closer, by means of those norway maples

on the far side of the pond

hands still in his khaki pants,

white sweatshirt, no hat,

no glove or coat although

it's just twenty-one above,

the brace of us knowing

he could be like that all

night drawn out even in twenty below,

No piss in the vital current as he'd joke

those dawns we shovel three four,

five-foot drifts of snow

for the entire arrest steam

whistling from our lips,

never a word between us,

like today, as I twist

the scaly bud till it glows

and I papal court again I have

his fingers, his hands,

the short lifeline that

instantly flares up

...

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