No Peace

I see something sullen, a sort of smoldering anger
in the face of the father. I understand he has lost
his son to mental illness but hardly comprehend
the cure, the culling. This is the chip, fallen from
the shoulder, grown into a tree he needed to weed
out rather than allow to flourish and flower. A barer
of bitter fruit, all uprooted then, is heaved, gasping,
from the garden. The wall around, once built lovingly
to protect, pieced together stone by hand-fitted stone
to last, becomes a barrier now, never to be crossed
again. I see unbearable separation heavily borne, one
that ceaselessly passes all understanding in a broken
father’s fragile mind refracting the endless turmoil.