A poem for my father

April 2007

Light dappled my hands.
The shears held firmly, I stretched and stretched,
grasping the branch by a thin patch of leaves,
pulling it towards my heart.

A diagonal cut. Then another. And another.

The perfume rose in a single wave to greet me,
Whispering of spring,
of awkward romance, of my first cologne.

Moving towards the kitchen,
I buried my nose in the deep amethyst blooms.

The vase, striped green on the diagonal, held waiting water.
No fancy arrangement, just branch ends immersed.

I turned then to feed the orange cat,
its whiskers tickling my ankle in anticipation.
One scoop. Then another. And another.

When I turned back, my father, five years dead, stood before me.
I smiled.

The lilac scent he loved so much filled the room
and my heart stretched and stretched,
in greeting, in memory.