Siege

I waste the sun's last hour sitting here
at the kitchen window. Tea and a pile
of photographs to sort. Radio news
like smoke of conflagrations far away.
There isn't room for another petal
or leaf out there, this year of blossom.
Light dazzles the hedge roots underneath
the heavy shadows, burns the long grass.

    I, in my father's arms in this garden,
    with dandelion hair. He, near forty,
    unaccustomed to the restlessness
    of a baby's energy. Small hands
    tear apart the photograph's composure.
    She pushes his chest to be let down
    where daisies embroider his new shoes.

Perfumes and thorns are tearing
...