December 15

A Poem on the Death of my Father

That mountain that always rose, solid
And immutable, iced with snow
At the edge of my horizon is now
Gone.
I look up, and its absence is a hole,
A fault in the seam of my life.

Father, born of dissatisfactions 
And dreams, heart full of wilderness,
I hope you’re at peace,
One with the wild sky,
Borne by the current you’d always
Hoped to dive into.

You’re there now, wherever
That place is. I imagine it scented
With cress and clematis, shining
Like the eye of some high alpine lake,
As lovely and lonesome as the last light
Touching the backcountry peaks
With one last brush of warmth
Before the eternal solitude.

Photo by Anthea Lawrence