Living thins the skin. No matter 
how thick. Dirt on flowers on coffins on dirt.

Father offers child—like gifts to his daughter.
He is searching for his mother. Dead

–ly to want what is buried. Marrow is blood;
veins cannot pump mud. After his mother’s funeral,

in the car, “What a Wonderful World” is playing. I am not.
Blossoms along the ditches blur. I, the daughter, perennial.

Reunited with his mother, a daughter and a mother
look down at the frozen earth, waiting for spring.