First chill of autumn—
 
coffee from my father’s cup
 
warms me to the bone.

 
 
 

Midmorning coffee—
 
I sip from an old stained cup
 
that was my father’s.

 
 
 

At my father’s grave
 
I find that someone has left
 
white chrysanthemums.

 
 
 

my father’s Bible
 
old stains of coffee and tea
 
gracing the pages

 
 
 

on the granite stone
 
my father’s name grows fainter—
 
tattered butterfly

 
 
 

In the nursing home
 
I clutch my father’s thin hand—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

Into the same urn
 
cradling my father’s ashes,
 
I pour my mother’s.