In Memory of my Father

There was a storm the day my father died, or something like it,

light snow maybe, poplars grounding, late April, no thoughts 

down at the root, crows on a neighbor’s roof and insolent–

a long time and I see him unwinding a darkness,

a scroll, spread across two tables  

mystery of how to depart, that’s what the dead have on us,

when conscience and wish are forgotten

and did I say there was a storm the day my father died

or something like it, and light snow?