after T.R. Hummer
In the ethereal clouds that cling thread-like and wilting at the tops of pine
trees like wet tissue paper on concrete, he considers the woods at
twilight obscured by the horizon’s gentle, pervasive shove, inquires
the now colorless canopy about what’s to come, and when he finds his,
father, he’s where he’s always been, for years now, in the quiet crypt, a
haphazard mausoleum, a private landmark like the granite memorial
of a forgotten war, he remains, still, he always has inside that empty box,
a vacant symbol of his father he never found, for he had come here, too, for
the verdant purpose, the insular world concealed by dark nature—this is where
he whispered his secrets, etched them into the backs of birch bark, and this
is where his son buried them, and like the itch of nostalgia, a return was
made, a penance perhaps, in hopes of finally taking flight.
Adam Chabot is the English Department Chair at Kents Hill School, a private, independent high school located in central Maine. His other poetry has been recently featured in rough diamond poetry, The Red Lemon Review, and FEED,among others. He can be found on Twitter @adam_chabot.