I've often thought of how my old man died: <br />a cancer, they said, shaped like a star, <br />grew in his brain, and fed upon <br />what he could call himself <br />until, at last, a vessel burst, <br />and drowned him in the caverns of his mind. <br /> <br />One night, before the last, he cried, <br />and begged my mother's pardon <br />for leaving her behind <br />with half his love unspoken; <br />she replied, <br />she'd have had no love without him: <br />when he died, <br />she folded up her love like summer clothes, <br />and buried it beneath a winter's snow.<br /><br />John Libertus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-ve-often-thought-of-how-my-old-man-died/
