my father's woods

quiet voices
in that oh, so quiet clearing
deep in the trees,
where our father had built
a room in a tall oak
a room to watch for deer
and enjoy that solitude he loved.
we three, first born,
stood and talked softly
of scattering Dad's ashes here
in this quiet place in the trees
when the time came -
where he'd hunted
and sat quietly.
the air was soft
with breeze and birdsong
and small tears from my sisters
while I looked at the ground,
listening to the trees sing low
sympathetic with our pre-grief;
our own mortality
peered shyly at us
from behind these trees
in my father's woods
as I stood and tried to feel
my father still alive and strong
as he is
as he is.