Poem for August

August, remembering February

The ground is too stubborn to give way. I try to spade up the red buds, as they have volunteered themselves under the giant pine.

They will not budge. I look for a new tool, but I ultimately must wait until the ground is wetter, the trees dormant. I hope I have time to dig then.

I think back, back to the day in winter, when the children built the snow fort under the sandbox lid and sleds. The photo, published on facebook. My father said, "daughter, it takes three children to raise a village."

Profound, prophetic, ironic, some of the final words. Our connection over thousands of miles; our blizzard, his California sunshine. His sunlit air, his flight.

How I wanted to fly after him, catching up with his spirit, before it ascended. Or catching it, and bringing it back.

Now I give up struggling in my yard. The trees will wait for a cooler day. Sometimes I'm looking at what he looked at, seeing it as he did. Can I bring the day back, February, commenting on my photo, change destiny? When I think of that day, I think I can. Then time slips forward again, no one stopped him to fly. So I pause somehow that day: hold it precious.