Algor Mortis

Algor Mortis

A memento mori to my father, who had passed when I was five.

Large dried oaks twisting above,

leaves clinging to twisted birch-gray branches

in the graveyard we walk in.

We pass smooth, flint granite statues

and cold, silver tombstones,

Like the algor mortis of a leaf

on an oak’s stiff branch

before the colder winds of winter,

when the wine leaves crisp

and the bronze leaves fall,

I think of my father,

and the last fall we spent together.

A Halloween party kindergarten held,

I was dressed in white and silver,

a winter fairy, and I recall

one of his last gifts to me:

a small, shorthair black kitten with large,

hunter green eyes, who lasted until

Thanksgiving – my mother hates cats.

Father lasted the winter, seeing my fifth birthday,

soon passing after the beginnings of spring.

While I am now twenty-one;

I have grown without him,

a sting of unease still

resonates every fall and spring,

as I visit this wake.

Chrysanthemums and lilies are

near the grave, however

I place a crimson rose on the simple

grave: a memento mori.