right hand pointing

On father’s birthday I took flowers.

The dirt from his grave stuck

 

to the underside of my fingernails.

I grew up on this dirt

 

that stretches and does not end.

The epitaph burnished by the blade

 

of sun setting on the grave.

The robin’s red breast bigger

 

than a Mack truck. When I turn

my back the robin turns

 

into my poem.