A Father's Grief
He buries a small hole in the garden,
wraps her thoughtfully in a pink blanket,
tears will flow down his skin so hardened,
the crops that failed proved no gambit,
Lowers her gently, tilts her head forward,
tries to pray but his trembling words slur,
Every day-break she was with the orchids,
Carefully clipping and small hand watered.
He still has a seat for her at the dinner table,
letting go of it has been far too painful,
He keeps her room as she had last left it,
scattered drawings and her red draped jacket.
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