A Poem by Canadian Poet Brian Brett: The Summer of My Father

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I would like to have

this one last summer

before I die, my father

said with his simple honesty,

and then he died

On a brilliant day in May.

And now, twelve years later,

I am down on my knees,

my hands riffling the black earth,

ripping out the morning

glory roots and quack grass:

The beans are so tall

In the heat their poles

are bending toward me

like shaggy, silent priests.

The thyme is humming with bees.

This is the garden in its glory.

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