For the Grave of My Father
he asked for no service
only a scatter
of ashes
near a Rogue River fern
where on his April birthday
the furled fronds will reach up
find woodland light
their mossy cores thick with want
but it was mostly the hometown mallards
swimming in another state's lake
that waded through fragments
of his dusty burned self
none got to the Rogue River
till 25 years later
when I stopped
at his requested station
Siskiyou forest conifers
still laden with snow
even though a latecomer
to this wake
I am a fiddlehead unfolding --
restored to him.