January 4, 2015


I see my father
beneath the snow,
over thirty years
it's been.

I've read his name
on the hill,
looked upon
the vault he's in.

I wonder if he's
up there still,
if his spirit
has moved on.
I wonder where
he is right now,
maybe somewhere 
in the sun.

I'm sure he
often thinks of me;
he visits sometimes
in my dreams,
where he knows
as well as I,
a room always
waits for him.