The World as Reconciliation
by Michael Escoubas

The evening is arrayed in rose colorations
painted on a liquid canvas smooth and silent.

Above the tree line the sky presents in gentle
tones of saffron and purplish gray.

Mist rises beyond the lake’s wet bank,
I find a place to rest on a bed of grass.

Dad’s hard voice returns to me as the moon
moves toward the night. Would that the love

between us had borne scents of cinnamon,
that his touch had been more tender.

Resting now where tears cannot go,
he lies beyond the reach of my arms.

Nature seems to understand a son’s heart,
wafting a censer of incense in summer air,

where regrets find resolution in evening mist,
and dance in jubilation that life is good.

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