Jack

He carries silence on his unusual arched lips
waiting for my father,
whose coarse voice and stick still loiters in our ears.
I have moved on but Jack is there
white , and mournful.
In the morning as my hand replaces my father's
carrying the meadow hay
he stares blankly
with his head hanging low.
His stubborn eyes arrows the sun
until it bows to welcome Pleiades
and their silver moon.
Like the red nose reindeer of Santa,
Jack then journeys the stars
to find his master
if somewhere he is
unwinding from the yarn of cerecloth.