for my father

Heart’s red fountain; can it soak
the dun acres? North,
an arid wind;
and what does it intend?
Cover, cover the earth,
tangle the hair he stroked.

Bright fountain; can it soak
the bitter soil? West,
an arid wind;
and what does it intend?
Undo the few things blessed,
unhang his scarf and cloak.

Red fountain, saturate
the sandy plain. An arid wind
made the weathervane grate,
blew to the East
and has not ceased,
blew hard and made him bend.

I heard him choke
in a brittle field where a south
and arid wind
still blows as it intends.
It parched his puzzled mouth,
blew far his risen smoke,

blows far and never ends.