Forgotten Ground Regained
Few Unshorn
The rain renders the AdirondacksGrey and grizzled. Seldom have I glanced At a ridge to see how a single treeStamps its name in the Nirvanic blissOf upper skies. Early the chin Of the sleeping mountain titan sickenedBut for where he forgot to wield the razorAnd left alpine stubble aloneFor me to find. It’s a kind of magicTo see your late father sleepingAcross Silver Bay and its sea,Alive only long enough For Greenwood to grip my grin and mouthAnd shake loose a, “Look Papa:You missed a spot. Good morning.”Before my dad is dead again.
Photograph by Ann LaBastille (National Archives)
Copyright © Lancelot Schaubert, 2026
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