Flare

by Barbara Sabol

As the weather turned cooler our crab apple burned

deeper in amber and auburn tones. Its small red berries

like match heads among the branches. The tree 

ornamental, saturated in its own splendor. A sunset

netted in our backyard. 

The day my proper and taciturn grandfather died

he had awakened from a stupor—not hearing, fluent

in gibberish, and barely moving for three days. Suddenly 

garrulous, he rose up in his hospital bed, the flimsy gown 

twisted around his old-man middle. 

Gathering clouds of starlings swirled

through bright branches to feeder

and back. Raucous, preparing 

for their long journey. Testing the air, 

the invisible draw, they announced 

the changes to come.

He resisted the nurse’s attempt to dress him.

Where I’m going, he said, there’s no need 

for clothes. Likewise, pushing away offers 

of broth, crackers, a sip of tea. Soon I’ll never be 

hungry again.

The flare in our little square of earth 

extinguished in the first cold gust. It seemed 

a swift, easy release—the tree maybe knowing 

its season of brilliance would return. 

The door frame of Pop’s hospital room

held me upright. I watched as he laid his head 

back and closed his eyes. In that moment 

I welcomed his beguiling notion 

of heaven. 

And now we rustle the leaves into parched mounds, 

then lean on our rakes, their plastic claws still clutching 

bunches of muted color, and watch the remains 

of the season blow back in the wind.

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Barbara Sabol's fourth collection, Imagine a Town, was published in 2020. Barbara's awards include a grant from the Ohio Arts Council. She lives in Akron, OH.