poem for dad

i can not tell you now
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
now that i have cooled to you
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the ancient songs
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
as i lie roofed in, screened in
backward, turn backward
skies they were ashen and sober
have you not heard
let me be sad