Bones of the father.

Two long hands, as brittle as spent breath, cold, done and numb,
One short walk on one short day, beyond integral, a frozen tomb:

Where lay the man, where lay the bones or earthly home, benign?
Where lay the bones, so cursed and hollow; their soured marrow?

Withering, as my weathering; too cold for tears, and old for tales;
No love lost, just gathered frost and unrepentant gales, unending.