My father’s spirit, built of plank, flew
into the afterlife’s eye like a stone thrown.
Old bone, I’m sure he made its ledge,
narrowly escaping the turnstile of reincarnation.
In that calm of death where even moss can be discerned
growing against the rivers edge,
his soul, unbidden, lifted as his heart
blued inside his breast. Slender as a
sprig on a silver buttonwood.
Oh good earth, he was a decent man.
About the Author: Lisa Zaran
Lisa Zaran is the author of eight collections of poetry including Dear Bob Dylan, The Blondes Lay Content, If It We and the sometimes girl. She is founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices, on online poetry journal in its twelfth year of publication. Lisa lives in Arizona where she works full time for a Community Service Agency serving individuals with substance use and mental health disorders