Fight for felicity for me

A Brief History of Fathers
-- by David Citino

Do we miss a thing we love
less if, in going away from us,
it grows beautiful? It rained

all weekend, and the leaves
this morning are going
from brown and tan to crimson.

The splendor flaming from
these trees compensates us,
nearly, for what autumn takes

leaf by leaf, the lined white face
of a father growing noble
the angrier, more confused

he goes, rain like angry bees,
his empty eyes, a cold wind
coming on like dementia.