Al Ortolani

Broad Leaf

My sister writes as we enter November, the month our father passed away. I find her images in the yellow leaves, scudding clouds, boney limbs. Our childhood yard is gated, tomato garden overgrown with plugs of broad leaf, Dad’s aluminum ladder on the side of the house, speckled with the last paint. Today’s wind is warm, a touch of sun spots the lawn. If I don’t leave this bench, I will miss my grandson’s birthday party. His happiness is too young for November.

cardinal at the feeder,
empty bowl in the hand
of the concrete Francis