Father I am waiting and time has turned from witchgrass to metal under my feet Father this metal feels cold like you I am alone remembering the orchard peaches fall and rot after the wind takes advantage of their ripeness Father how heavy the air was with bruises you cut the trees and told me to build Father you called me your self gave me your tongue your hands but Father these trees are not meant for building these trees are not meant for you Father I write trees because I cannot use the tongue you gave me Father your tongue chokes what I want to say Father I want to say Father I cannot build you forgiveness from this wood Father I prefer the tree Father the fruit Father there once was something beautiful
-- Meredith Herndon is a writer and editor currently living in Virginia. She has an MFA from the University of California Davis, where she won the Celeste Turner Wright Poetry Award sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. Her poems have been published in The Seventh Wave, Faultline, Sundog Lit, Copper Nickel, poets.org, and elsewhere. She is currently a Guest Editor for Palette Poetry.