Say nothing you walk quietly

Say nothing you walk quietly

past the sycamores and pause at your father’s

oak tree (planted 1963, it ages consistently

twenty-odd-something collected years behind

you) grow slowly now with only one voice

forcing ideas into your thoughts. Sadly

after planting that oak tree your father

spent forty-odd-somewhat disordered years drinking

rum with every dinner and on his sixty-odd-

forgotten birthday he spat his blood into the earth

and dove in after it reaching only six-odd-measured

feet before being missed (by you, pausing

at the oak tree, just past the sycamores).


About mattfaw

Hi, my name is Matt and I enjoy writing things, eating things, writing eats, and thinging writes.
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