In Nineteen ninety-three, my father built
A timber lodge in North Wisconsin’s glens
That overlooked the isle on which his friends
And he’d spent Sixties’ childhood summers, gilt
In joy. Before sly cancer’s scourge could wilt His will, he’d view through wooden sanctuary’s lens
A life beset by boyhood’s woes—not men’s.
From sun-pierced panes, nostalgic Styx would lilt.
Though Death completely cleaved us two apart,
Twelve ill-eased silent years estranged us first.
If I could stand where he’d once self-immersed,
Within his heart’s close-fitting counterpart--
Would A-framed beams with whom he’d once conversed
Tell how we pines, once intertwined, dispersed?