My mother was
a being born of
miracles, of monsters,
magic, mayhem
and mystery.


She once described
a winter fig:
'That tree is a
spaceship from Pluto.'


My father, son of
calm reason and
clear chill logic,
twisted his head.


'No.'


There was always
finality whenever he said
his favorite word.


He then clucked his tongue,
a seemingly innocuous habit
which nonetheless conveyed
an unrelenting disapproval
of the entire world.


'That tree looks like rain, ' said he,
sadness dropping his voice.

David Kowalczyk

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-fig/