December’s Himalayan mists have merged
above the hills. Your urn is resting
on the desk in Papa’s pool room
beside your mounting daily mail.
Each time we round your street to pick it up,
the pears have passed a little more.
A week ago their reds had peaked
and all the lawns were lit
with cadmium leaves returning to the palette
the pure power of a passion undisplayed.
Now mountains have lain in the mountains
in the blue depth of their suggestion,
and the crimson rage has browned
and ghosts among the moldering gold,
disclosing what the summer saved
of mountains and the summoning sky.
Daniel Fitzpatrick grew up in New Orleans and now lives in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with his wife and daughter. His poems have appeared in several journals, including 2River View, Coe Review, and Panoply. In addition to writing, he enjoys kayaking the Diamond Lakes, micro-farming, and exploring the Ouachita Mountains.