My Father’s Loft
by Jennie Winters (*)
A reading activity we could share,
Field Guide to Trees and Shrubs.
Upswept, Maiden Hair, Pine of the Wood.
Names of trees, their alternate buds, their leaves
clinging to printed ink.
The attic creaks, its question clear.
Reminds me what I’m doing here sorting through
old piles. Alive you’d leave
For days return with books. Unread,
Your bargains flutter at the eaves, the roof,
they drift down to floorboards
as I sneak. You used to teach me
names of trees, woodland and fungi, christened
during morning walks. You’d
mouth with ease Dianthus Daisy.
Then vanish into the attic to pluck
Plantlife and Messages.
We’d read the words of flowertalk.
White Verbena, Syringa, Shepherd’s Purse.
Pages brush timber beams,
their stalks blossom on the wall.
Petals lie clustered at my feet, crusts
of rolls laden with dust.
I step on shoots and blush before
I slip on leaves. A sway that swept me up
the stair, an open door,
an overgrowth of books to share.