The roof collapsed the day you left;
The raging waters rose;
The earth, it opened underfoot;
A wildfire nipped my toes.
My conscience slipped. My compass points
Reversed and spun around.
The continents commenced to drift:
They laid you in the ground.
I worshipped dirt beneath your feet
(Though now above your head.)
Who guides me now, who is there left
To soothe my shock, bereaved, bereft,
Who there, to weave my warp and weft,
Now that my father’s dead?
Copyright 2020 Andrea LeDew
For a rhyme about another type of grief, read Empty Nester.
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