Still

The climbing rose
scratches at the window
and I am sleepless again,
fatherless as when I went to bed.

His death rises
bright as the moon,
but fades.

His death pale
as the winter sun,
the ghost image
of a flashbulb.

In those last snapshots
his hand is always rising
as if he knew
he was becoming a ghost,
needed to remain
uncaptured,
free from the frame of his body.

copyright 2006 Brent Fisk
bio
Contents 06