To My Beloved Father, I

Each ash is raised by some dead fire— A monument To our lost fevers of desire, That now lie spent, In the cold discipline of death, Cooling their breath.

But you, my love, with your light tread Of Ecstasy, Will dance a measure to the dead, Who only see The slow encroaching mists of grey, That make a spirit’s holiday.

Fire, the precursor of the ash, The wastrel flame, Fashioned the darkness with a flash Until there came Day’s reasoning economy To set light free.

But you, my love, will burn the night With flickering eye, Holding all darkness and all light In jeopardy, Who know that heart and blood and bone And dusk and fire and ash are one.