poem for dad

what shall we do now
why are the things that have no death
dark-eyed
it was many and many a year ago
along a river-side
by the rude bridge
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
like eagles on up high
god
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
desolate and lone