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Will Thomas

For Courtney: With Wings

This morning,
at about ten after eight,
eyes still aching
from all of those tears,
I stand at my office window
and look out
at an impossibly orange sun
climbing into
a blue celebration of sky.

In the background,
the haunting beginnings of Carrickfergus:
aching flutes and yearning pipes
calling,
beckoning my heart
to yours.

And in this moment,
hands in the back pockets
of worn blue corduroys,

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My Father Died

In the middle of the summer,
when I was twenty-two
and wore sneakers with no socks
and was growing my first beard,
my father died.

In the middle of the summer,
when my son was one years old
and lay in his playpen
in the hardscrabble grass of the backyard,
making living sounds
and grabbing for fistfuls of air,
my father died.

In the middle of the summer,
days before somebody walked on the moon,
days after the bright-colored beginnings
of my daughter's life,
my father died.

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