Fall

My father died twelve years ago today
in the flame red trees of Vermont.
He saw many flaming fall days
and he grew like a maple tree
and he was full of good syrup.
Now the trees are even taller.
I have not been there since then
and I miss my father and the trees.
He did not tell me the story
of the old man
reflecting on his falling life
on a crisp October day,
in the middle of the chapel of trees
that will call him back home.
I will write that story.