In view of my window
last night’s snow interprets
the hills, the hush of its
thick fall never having
woken me from my dreams,
the last one of my father
when he was still living,
his face a maze I’d like to
explore, a map into his past
and the curves of his laughter;
the tree swing he loved by
the lakeshore, playing on it
like a big kid in front of
reporters, a memory I’ve
held for so long inside of
me that’s left its mark like
a stream over time wearing
a seam in the earth. I’d love
to trace the lines in his face
every time he smiles with
my fingertips, sit at the table
across from him on the north
side of the house, eyeing the
oriental willow that decorates
his small plate of orange
segments where he sits looking
outside the window.
Artwork by: Wilson Bentley
