Here he's about seven: big serious forehead,
little fedora, little man, he holds,
or seems to drag, his baby brother, whose
eyes are closed. Bare winter trees project long,
stark shadows. The days are short, light thin and
for those smiling family ghosts lined up in
invisible ranks behind the peony
bushes -- this time of year no more than scrub
grey stubs of dumb roots hidden underground --
no providential dividend for brave
investment of years promised remains, save
this fading, hollow sound -- life's dim echo?