
Jørn Earl Otte
"Blue" -- April 16, National Poetry Month

Blue
1
The hydrangea
outside of my daughter’s
bedroom window
is the same color blue
as my father’s
face
when I found him
lying dead on our bathroom floor.
2
My son’s soccer uniform,
crisp and ironed and new
as this cold, windy Spring morning,
fits snuggly on his young muscular
frame. His arms are hairy,
just like my brother’s arms
were. The swimming pool
where my brother took his last breath
reopened without fanfare.
3
Sometimes,
when I look at the way
my daughter's eyes disappear
when she laughs,
I remember my dad
telling jokes in two languages,
laughing big bellied beer breath
while the room swayed with joy.
4
Last month, my son
discovered his sweetness,
learned why his mouth
was as thirsty
as the angels
when their god has turned
the water into blood.
5
All of this is fine.
The squirrels are starting to emerge
on the three oak trees
in my front yard.
Father, son, holy mother.
My children jumped
in leaf piles beneath
the oaks, that first autumn
in our new home.
6
I love being a dad.
I loved being a son.
Tomorrow, I will
go outside, and I will
play games, rake leaves,
mow grass, stare at the stars.
I will hug three trees.
I will bow.
I will kneel.
I will remember.