“Now the lights coiled white in dogwood trees, now the graying father at the door,
now the wooden angels on the walls.
Now the suitcase in the childhood room, now the glow stars dead on the ceiling,
now the dog that barks at nothing.
Now the forsythia shedding its opposite leaves, now the sky lifting its hoary lid,
now the cardinal blushing the maple…”
Read the rest of the poem at Nashville Review.