The Sand Dollar

As sand falls from a sand dollar

set on a shelf far from the seashore

(the tide pools of Oregon),

so do the seasons shift and leaves drop, 

weighted with rain from a gunmetal sky.

It muddies the unmarked grave,

the shoveled dirt, blackened and coarse,

unlike his face, clean-shaven on the blade of the mortician.

Lids drawn over the sterling blue eyes,

tie straightened and mouth closed,

tight-lipped, as our father never was.

The mouth isn’t right, my sister whispered

as the kneeler wobbled under our connected sorrow.

I checked his pockets, like a child for a coin,

climbing on a lap, cool and deep, and empty.

Linked to the Tuesday Platform (Poets Choice) at The Imaginary Garden.