Succession

In the black, cold mountains

Of Our Lord's Blood that run from Santa Fe northward,

A father, bed-ridden under his carpentry,

Surrounded by his progeny

Gazes one last time.

A life of tragedy, suffering,

Yet one redeemed by the sturdy posts of his home.

He turns rightward on his side,

To see his successor in his view.

One last breath he musters,

Until he finally allows for death to come upon him

Succession has been made with blood.

Father.