When I close my eyes I can no
longer see your face. Put your
photograph on the bookshelf,
above my chair, you’re looking
down and I’ve been looking up,
so many times that your face is
only a black and white picture in
a green frame of spring;
that’s no way to remember you.
When we are alone together, I
often look into the mirror and
see, in the outline of my aged
face, that I’m truly your son.
And that’s how I remember you.