Quiet

I imagine my father dying again,
as still and as white as his sheets.
There are more things I want to tell him now,
about how it rains in my son's head
and floods his heart,
the boundless country my other son visits,
and the melody of birds I share
with my wife in the morning.

Father, I will hold you around me.
I know the pitch of the road,
and the quiet of distant sunset.