May the Second

The Summer before
my father died,
the thick front ivy
moved in beyond and through the window screens and wound its treefrog tendril pads
amongst the linen curtains, the cloth, a nubbly weave of flowers coloured like honey.

The Fall before my father died
we harvested potatoes from his back yard.
we harvested the beans and peas
but he was ill – we didn’t freeze them
we offered them for eating now with red wine and cheap cuts of beef stewed
we sat around the family worn
dining table and talked of music, religion, politics…  not
realizing the vine had woven the windows open and
could not now be shut against the wind.

The Winter before my father died
we could not withstand 
the vicious cold of February
the first floor of the house filled with black
ice that barred the random from venturing in.
upstairs we shivered alone under blankets in our rooms and waited for May Day.

The Spring before my father died was celebrated in one day.

© Catherine Ruth Taylor