Three small poems about my father

My father says he'll know
in which direction we are traveling
when he finds the moss on a tree.
On which side does the moss grow? I ask.
The north, he replies.
And we drive. The road winding.
We come to a fork in the road.
I begin to quote Frost
but he quotes Yogi Berra first:
When you come to a fork in the road ...
take it. The rest of the way we talk
The twigs are too damp to burn.
The fire is hesitant. My father
breathes on it. The flames,
as if startled, jump
into the air. All it needs
is a little help, he says.
And we stand side by side
breathing into the fire.
Our shadows stretch for miles
into the indelible night.

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