The Front

In my father's once brave eyes
a fog of sadness rises white,
the lowlands of his mood
have a river running through.
The air around him stills.

This illness robs his smile.
He is a playground midwinter,
the wistful children pressed to windows.
In his sleep he moans like a far-off train.

The rain shifts slowly to snow
and the parking lot disappears
before my eyes.
People bundled against the cold and dark
slouch homeward in pedestrian ways.
Above them a star loses light,
does not fall but fades.
The snow is restless beneath streetlamps,
whirls like the last stray words of the dying,
the scattered thoughts of a vigil.
On the small tv above his bed,
the bland weatherman promises warmth
and nothing tomorrow but a steady rain.

copyright 2006 Brent Fisk
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