Samuel slept in Dad’s green lawn chair,
while fragments of light in the mason jars
on the fence flickered with the moving shade of the trees
like anxious lanterns at night. He put them in his will,
not the dress shirt draped over Sam like a blanket,
when a cloud put its hand over
Dad’s backyard, the pale empty jars,
and a framed picture in the grass of Dad
smiling, two ballpoint pens in his pocket protector,
sitting on the edge of his university desk, hands clasped,
as if waiting for the cool breeze that a silent cloud
sometimes brings.
Reforming Imagination 