How do you close out a life?

There are two kinds of woodpecker, 
one downy, the other in a flashy red cap,
twins of a different stripe. 
They watch over the pile of wood
left from the end of winter
at our father’s house.

We’re struck by the stillness
of this moment, of the birds
holding back like our expected relief 
as we pause from rifling through letters, 
sorting out pictures, his notes,
the sums on the backs of envelopes,
to sit out here in the sunlight
where we can pick at the frayed edge of cut strings.

Everything is blurred.
How do you close out a life? 
How do you capture it?
We sit in his yard, which will need tending;
like the pushing weeds, the birds are indifferent.
They hop from the pile, checking it over,
as if to choose. There is no hurry.

JARED BELOFF

Jared Beloff is a teacher and poet who lives in Queens, New York, with his wife and two daughters. You can find his work in littledeathlit, Neologism Poetry Journal, and the forthcoming issues of Gyroscope Review, Feral, and others. You can find him online at www.jaredbeloff.com. Follow him on Twitter @read_instead.