Upon the wrinkled brow of my dead dad,
A furrowed row of flowers bloomed anew.
Where life had left, it had been born again.
To signal what will die will be renewed.

And they were purple crocus, too — my fave!
I know that can’t just be coincidence.
It’s signaling the end of winter days,
And the return to Earth of common sense.

‘Cause common sense weren’t common for some years.
For centuries we suffered — All our lines.
But everything is cyclical in here.
And Father’s rebirth seems to be a sign.

For he was awful horny — were he not?
But mother spruced him up — the lousy sot.