Cracked Curbs And Sweet Blue Skies
by Michael Estabrook
Clutter of memories comes clattering back
clambering into my unguarded consciousness,
crowding everything else into dust,
breezes from my early youth and childhood
like ghosts in the twilight
shimmering yet silent, black holes
where mouths should be:
Dad dying gaunt and groaning
slivering away beaten and broken
but in body only, his glistening spirit
soaring high and sure still
greeting me when I call
helping as always to lead my way.
Grammy giving me another book
snapping photos of me with
my brothers and mom.
Northfield Avenue with its
saplings and apple orchards,
cracked curbs, dirt driveways
and sinking sweet blue skies.