November 27, 1981 (A Poem – Leighton Ford)

This is the day our son died.
It’s not hard to remember.
Outside, early.
a red bird rests on the feeder.
The sky is cloudy.
A few brown leaves fall singly.

Wrangler my blue dog
chews on his mat until
he understands, wise friend,
and comes to sit by me, quietly
asking for nothing.

I allow myself to recognize again
the returning scent of pain
like a smoky candle
which has not quite gone out.

Leighton Ford
November 27, 2011