Dying light

Thinking of my father tonight; his birthday was this month.

In the autumn
of my father’s life,
leaves of pistachio,
liquid amber
glowing red
against a somber sky,

like the tumor
of my father,
glowing red
against gray matter.

My father, childlike, weeping;
I, his daughter, murmuring, mothering.

The leaves will fall,
as will my father,
his tumor
felling the host
on which it fed,
leaving only
gray branches
and long dark days
of winter.

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