August Fox
The casket in its grave. Dad forever
at rest. People disperse. I remain
always a daughter. Whiskey poured
from his flask, a glass raised as late
afternoon tilts its sun from the sky.
Cemetery nestled in a city's noise, I hear
absence of sound as the fox trots
before me from nowhere. He pauses
head turns, our eyes meet, silence grows.
We remember winter nights frozen
when stillness speaks of who we are.
Brother, protector, talisman of travelers
we become the wind, unseen, weaving
oneness through the art of camouflage.
Fox exhales, inhales, grins, scurries
across the wasteland. Sweet bell-tones chant
through treetops, silhouettes dance dapples
upon snowed-earth. The grave is closed.
Whiskey warmth within, a reflection of fire;
without, the snow, the ice - a path is ablaze
through the hearts of shadows
and the fox in August the same above as below.
© Patricia Crane 2005
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