A Bittered Cold Poem by Fred Odom

it is a bittered cold at the end of winter
and outside along the banks of the potomac
the cherry blossoms freeze in place by the last grasp
of a desperate season chased out of town
by the tilt of the earth towards the sun

I know that grasp.
I hold my father's hand clutched likewise
with my head upon his oncewarm body.
he, frozen in place by a rogue clot that found its way into his once vibrant heart,
relentless in its new lodging from a distant limb that harbored it
in flight from a similarly distant coast.
it is cold and bitter,
the end we have to plans and projects tabled
as though there'll be tomorrows and tomorrows
warmed by the celebration of togethered tasks and laughter
frozen in place
and slowly melting into the slush of saddened loss
as the earth tilts its way to other seasons.

it is bitter and cold
in the room scattered with remnants of the
failed flogging of my father's heart frozen in mid beat
and the sinking of a another heart when hearing,
was he your father?
no. he IS my father


and
indescribably more.
he is my friend mentor companion model my font from which I am all I have become or will
and
I will not I cannot let that fall away.
of course I know where I want him to go,
home …… again ….. with me
regardless of the unrelenting
tilt of the earth to other seasons

a bitterred and cold life
where once was blossomed joy, now glazed
with ice in shielded fear of loss,
may again be warmed in time
by memories' recollected glow of simple joys connecting moments past
as roots to trees that that Spring bursts forth its growth

without a conscious plan, in spinning through our time
in day-to-day todays
as though in cycled seasons.
we see again a reason to go on
because of warming hope's renewal
by the tilt of earth to other seasons.