Lethe.(Poem)

 
LETHE 
 
   My father drinks from the spring of forgetfulness. 
 
   Through the stillness of an afternoon, awash 
   with reminiscence, he pauses, 
   relatives long gone rising to whisper 
   answers in his ear. 
 
   In his dreams they call to him 
   for an accounting, to enlighten the living. 
 
   The penumbra of his memory lumbers off 
   into far trees pulsing in the heat, while birds 
   levitate on afternoon thermals, 
   spiraling upward. 
 
   Out there, he says, 
   beyond the smoky haze setting on the fields, 
   a barn is burning, fire consuming the cobwebs, 
   an ancient roof on the verge of ...