Proximity

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(Manistique Michigan, 2001)

We walk
a silent morning
picking words

from yellow 
trees.  Speaking

but knowing 
how to not 
speak he explains

the river.
Our history hangs
on every cloud

and autumn exhales
comfort smells of

jack pine fires 
and replenished
earth. He is old

so old his father 
hands have turned
to ash

his gestures sprinkle
down in grays
and blacks

to piles of minor
seventh chords. We halt

before the height 
and grace of three
balm of Gilead trees 

that for greater than his
eighty years have groved
the yard.

	scatter me here

he says. The river
waits in steady
stillness.

Looking back not twenty
yards I see
the cabin

its floorboards
marred by the rocking
of his cradle.

Michael Grodesky

Michael Grodesky is a poet and photographer living in Seattle. His poems appeared in the September/October, 2014 edition of Down in the Dirt Magazine.  As a clinician and researcher, his work has appeared in numerous professional journals.

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