Old burning-bones, my father,
died the death
of a thousand wives
on a bed of rosy thorns.
His spirit now in tattered trousers
soars
above the branches where the wind is wet
and snow forms soft ruffs around the neck.
His body was consigned
to licking flames
that turned him into wind-blown ash
and soot
to fill tall chimneys
and obscure the view,
through crystal panes,
of flowers that nod their heads and wisely smile
at all male antics and their foolish strife.