Father drove us from Spokane to Coeur d’ Alene
for a summer picnic by the lake when I was six.
At Idaho I wondered, waited, for the fat map line
the nuns carved in chalk from Canada to Oregon,
Would the brown scrub turn green, and blisters
of basalt lie down suddenly and turn to parks
with swing sets, shaded pools and apple trees?
None of that as the sun hauled us along.
But none the worse as we rode home late under
a water-colored sky, our happiness spilling out
the car’s windows like smoke from Dad’s cigar.
And now, no less sweet than an orchard breeze
sweeping through the grass on his grave.

Gavin W Sisk
Jan. 2021