Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Margaret Walther

On the Way to Your Funeral

I keep trying to find you. I-76 east from Denver. How often I have driven this road, the flat distance that soothes, the familiar clumps of weed. Sunflowers seamed this country on the way to Father's funeral. Brown centers moved to the heat of August's eye. As your brown, city eyes followed him to farm. Palpable, his presence on this land. An unexpected comfort — cows munching. Two and a half long years alone, you, held stiff whispered, Why can I not cry? stumbling in and out of hospital, the home, stroke after stroke razing your stubbled mind. Now, winter lines the roadside, the sun hides its bitter eye. Sunflower parched seed. I never knew who you were. The horizon, a thread unraveling. Come Sterling, where I was born, the garment will be undone. The only place I can find you, in the frayed scraps of snow, sporadically ripped apart by the wind.