Brief Father,
Thank you for these forays into the words, their
woods I prowled, my pencil the stick upon which
I hobbled to erect one more flag, lusting for the moment,
marveling at a flower, by which I mean flesh, gazing
at a stone, by which I mean tomb. Thank you for each mercy
and minute on the threshold where stalled, sniffing,
poking like a dog, I wanted only the opening or closing
to linger. Thank you for the seeds I squandered or
coveted, and thank you for the fruits, especially the orange
sprung entirely from its impatience with green, swelling now
on the one horizon as the world flattens out so I can lay me to sleep. 
Brief Father
Peeling