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