Eric Attica
Grandpa tended the roses.
Not for Grandma’s sake
Even though he took them to her grave
But when he died, there were roses on his casket.
I touched the hand of his body
And thought it was nice, knowing that if he wasn’t there
And the hand was just a hand
Then he was probably elsewhere, tending the roses.
My dad cried.
I didn’t know he could do that.
I did know he could swear,
But only when his dad wasn’t around.
Amid the throngs of late, busy people
In the shade of a silent tree
I stopped to talk to a girl
with a butterfly on her finger.
(Enormous, with sheets of gold for wings,
and still as the sun.)
I asked, where did you find it?
She said, I raised it myself
And yesterday it was a caterpillar.
The time of year when growth and death Together bloom in abject breath When teardrops nourish rusted leaves And fresh hope soars on withered wings When silent innocence expires And making camp means setting fire. Yet scorched remains of ashen times Are tender starts to second tries That seem, in future memory, The priceless griefs of autumn spring.
A poem about decisions, regrets, and letting go. ∎