The Dad TreeLuke Fannan
Last night I dreamt that my Dad was a Tree.
Ring-barked, girdled and dry.
His funeral saw letters carved into his skin.
Poems, goodnights and goodbyes.
Branch-shadowed mourners were left gazing
Upon scars of mutual woe.
Instead of being buried, he was worked from the earth.
His tightening grip, no more.
Why bury memories when it’s easy to burn?
Destroy, move on, don’t cry!
In place of his roots, now ashes and urn.
In place of his shade, the sky.
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