I remember feeling guilty for
coming alive that morning.
There was a conspiracy to
hide it all from the crows,
in the bitter air's shards, not even
my breath was a secret.
A jackknifed cold ached in the knees
of the ear-muffed service men
and punished their lips with
every shrill into important trumpets,
hoarfrost like barbed wire wrenched
white around each blade of grass.
Always wondered why a man
they said hated trees
went down for good in a casket bordered
with silver evergreens,
a crow's eye glossed obsidian,
the only time I saw my father cry.