Your father’s Delta 88

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We follow the fragrance of the river
in your father’s 
Delta 88.
With the windows rolled down 
we drift on an old stone road 
and watch the
eddies pull quilt-shaped flowers 
along their creases, 
folding them, unfolding them, 
pressing their petals into wine.

You said you saw thrushes rise
from the pecan trees, 
their voices reciting
proverbs 

if we could know them, you said, 
if we could believe them, you said,
we would be home.

You drove us to a place
where you hoped we would be blessed
where we could be remembered
for more than your father’s 
Delta 88
but we are
as forgettable as anyone, you said,
simple pencil drawings
pushed along the paper
then erased in increments
and folded into boxes.

Photo by George Sultan from Pexels

9 thoughts on “Your father’s Delta 88

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