I watched as my father lay on the couch, sagging.
His face ashen like the November sky.
I listened to the wheeze in his chest,
wondering what was wrong, knowing it wasn’t right.
The trees bare of leaves, feigning death, unlike my father.
His eyes rolled in his head, searching for focus, failing.
He was falling like the last leaves of autumn towards six feet of earth.
Covered, buried, in love.
Photographer: Scott Robinson
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