I"m Thinking Of My Father Poem by Kim Moore

I'm thinking of my father in the backyard
throwing more and more wood on the fire
as the slow dusk of summer descends
he's throwing more wood on the fire

as his brother lies dying, but then I think
aren't we all dying, but he knows,
my uncle, he knows what will kill him,
a tumour the size of a fist and growing

and still my father throws wood on the fire
as the new cherry blossom tree waits
to be planted, he throws wood on the fire
while my mother sits and watches TV

and outside the fire gets higher. My father
cuts wood with a saw that screams as if someone
is dying and he doesn't care about splinters
or safety as long as the fire gets higher.

And all the stone lions and grave little gnomes
in their cheerful red breeches are waiting
for the fire to falter, and the lamp that's addicted
to heat flickers on, flickers off and the lawn sits

in its shadows and dark and its falsehoods
and the ending begins with its terrible face,
its strange way of being, its short way of living
and my father stops throwing wood on the fire.