On the Death of My Father

In solemn procession
we joined the Traveler
when we found his feet
were on the path to the River’s edge.

Out of the mists the boatman loomed.
There was no sound from the ominous oars,
only the soft lapping of time—the wash of the unavoidable.

Standing in silent vigil
around his last tracks in the sand
we watched and waited
as the Traveler and the boatman disappeared without sound
into the mists.

Then like a cleanup crew
at the end of a play,
we discarded the props
and picked up the pieces.

Posted in memory of the death of my father on March 5, 2002. I wrote this poem at that time.  The painting is by my mother, Inez Grauke.