Each morning I feel my chest rise
collapse—my eyes face up then reel
back—in waking.

I imagine myself a tree and you
the root—you who taught me to reach
Watch! as I take this hand, splay
fingers like leaves and grab the Sun.

But there’s a rope—my sternum
anchored to a floral couch on
Oaken Bucket Drive where a van waits
out front and James Taylor sings.

I am here—your eyes do not open
I am here—your chest will not rise
I am here—still
as I whisper
“Dad, I love you”