Three small poems about my father

1
My father says he'll know
in which direction we are traveling
when he finds the moss on a tree.
On which side does the moss grow? I ask.
The north, he replies.
And we drive. The road winding.
2
We come to a fork in the road.
I begin to quote Frost
but he quotes Yogi Berra first:
When you come to a fork in the road ...
take it. The rest of the way we talk
baseball.
3
The twigs are too damp to burn.
The fire is hesitant. My father
breathes on it. The flames,
as if startled, jump
into the air. All it needs
is a little help, he says.
And we stand side by side
breathing into the fire.
Our shadows stretch for miles
into the indelible night.