there are few things i don't like to talk about

there are few things i don't like to talk about
like the transition from being the happy child
who knew no strangers
to the jaded prophet
who assumes the worst

and the way the roads turn from north to south
like a subversive smile on a familiar mouth
leading me away from trees lining byron road
with leaves falling from the immanent cold

there are few things i don't like to talk about
like the tiny casket of my infant brother
and the day the clock stopped short of another day
hands circling the oak tree in the lakeside cemetery

and the weight of the whispers in a crowded room
her hand in a fist shaking immanent doom
the collapse of innocence and the candle burns
eighty-nine more days to live and learn

there are a few things i don't like to talk about
like the ever present absence of Immanuel
and the assumption of grace in a world lacking
delicate winter weather advisories
and the wonder of forgiveness, when i feel none

and the laughter of three little girls
who will always believe in their daddy
no matter the speculation and circulation
unashamed affection without hesitation
this is true, of this i'm sure…
i love you.