My father longs for the steady state,
to rise at the same time and set
at the same time, all days at the equator

of life sharing light and dark equally,
no denial of either joy or depression,
anxiety now a fuss over indigestion

or rabbits raiding the garden,
not too old to change, but too old
to recognize change within, or unwilling,

desiring that goodness and promise
should at least be even with evil,
the good fight fought, malevolence held.

The same brick seems to gain weight during the day
and same breath grows heavier toward night,
the steps grow taller, but the moon,

the moon rises large and flat and romantic
the way it always has, still drifts
on the horizon like the shape of longing

the way it always has, and the heart
races not from labor but from love,
as it did in the beginning and now at the end.


© by Jeff Burt.
Used with the author’s permission.