Epicedium to Potter’s Field

My father was A blossom, And I was his fragile Epiphyte on his Days off. The purple Dogs of years Gone by Watch him smile At the horizon. His feretory Catches the Rain from the Smoldering sky. These fields are Fallow and dried Gullies where gin Sparkled In the morning. My father’s remains Are smooth like the Starlight that Makes my life Slightly yellow.