Aubade

A wound is a blossom but only to the living. A May night, birdsong before the first light pierces, chirps out of blackness: My daughter's angry at me and her mother as I was once angry at mine. It's a way of crossing over. I'm so tired now. And my core's all water, flowing somewhere where the sea can't find her. And neither can I. How much longer till I finally lose her? Where is the first dawn wet blossom? Who recalls how I touched her mother once? Or many others? How night is not always easy. Nor are daughters. Nor are sons. And how is it I've become a father watching light sift slowly into the daughterless dark.