By Wesley Houp
Whippoorwill glade
margins jeweled
with late summer
gumweed.
Rose pink hanging on.
A gold finch burns
up in the atmosphere.
At the far end
a single branch
of persimmon waves.
My father waved
like that
across the tobacco field,
no great effort,
just an arm raised
momentarily
to say let’s go home.
Something similar
is about to happen
in the next universe,
and I want to be there.
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