December 8

This day
that tortures and sustains and follows
me like a persistent shadow
year after year.
This is the 10th one
he’s missed. Beatles songs
play hourly on the radio.
41 years now he’s been gone.

Not that my father
and John Lennon
shared much in common—save
one died the day the other was born
43 years earlier. Save
they each shared their birthdays
with one of their children.
A daughter. A son.

Coincidences that blossom
into hothouse flowers
ready to deliver
into late astronomical fall.
Fresh early season snow
that bonds and blurs
park paths into grassy fields
hidden beneath.

A kaleidoscope
of butterflies
collected in a vivarium
that charms with mystery,
delights and moves
once tilted mirrors
and repeated reflection
get involved.

A song to write, or
a physics problem to solve.
If the two of them had met,
it might have been catastrophic.
No doubt, whatever got created
would have taken flight
in a gravity defying blast
of sonic glory.

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