Boxed-in yells on a dinner
Plate, that plank of splinters.
My dead father is conjured! I see his head
In the pregnant belly of the moon.
His rolled-up eyes are tiding the sea.
He calls out to me
And his voice moves
Through trees and mountains. They are standing,
Backs walled to the sky.
They do nothing.
The moon
Strokes her luminous surface and murmurs
To the fullness, that dead head.
The sound is deafening.
Author notes
FINALLY the last draft!! whew 
Comments
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our voice move neither trees nor mountains,they are too busy watching the sky....but i think we always think our voice and words are so sharp to pierce into anything to make a difference...and the' home 'is full of nostalgic feeling and some very good expressions bring it all the more beautiful..
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Ah..you are very intriguing while sharing your heart with so much touching poetry and with so much thought provoking treatment of the deep poetry..I can see your concern and your depth..well stated verse is here....
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