It’s cold on brother’s birthday
and no different for father’s
a week later. He’s older.
The all-weathered version of
the younger carpenter, his son,
&mom’s pride and joy, whose skills
dad’s afraid now exceed his own.
But their hands are the same.
Mom always points this out.
Of the same mind. I surely forget
their sweet hearts. Try to bury
their cold parts. Deny their
selfish core, and the way
they whittle wood down to nothing.
Can we get through this hardship?
Come quickly, March. Let the rains
melt hard-packed snow. I believe
daffodils have a chance to come out
laughing from tough hard bulbs.
For Real Toads