AT THE TURN OF THE TRAIL

My father dozes as he waits  
on a bench in the filtered light
by Cypress Creek's loop trail.

He doesn't read signs that teach 
about the swamp, the hardwood canopy, 
bald cypress knees stretching for air
from wet forest floor or resurrection 
ferns greening after rains return.  
He stares into shadow 

and imagines me after he's gone,
holding this photograph of him, 
no smile, the blues, greens 
of his shirt blending with damp foliage 
at the turn of the trail
as he tries to hide his arthritic pain.  

I follow the numbered trail guide 
and learn how Strangler figs sprout 
in fronds of cabbage palms.
They send roots to muddy earth
and grow trunks, twist 
their fingers around the palm
as they grasp for something 
to hold on to in loose ground.