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Crickets in the Grave Flowers

When an old man dies, A library burns to the ground. . . Sometime, somewhere, someone Repeated that African proverb to me I think of that and feel the hollowness In the sound of these crickets hiding in the grave flowers. Homeless, I wander across desolate plains. . . Fatherless now I must realize that he will not step from behind the barn. I must realize That when I hear a strange noise and turn quickly to see him there I will never be quick enough. I will no longer touch the bristles on his face.