A Visit From Dad

There is a sweet oblivion of self 
that comes with walking in fresh snow,
past the gaunt wet limbs of trees,
waiting for Dad,
who seems to know 
when I’ve made room for him. 

And that head down hole and tail in air, 
my dog will raise a snowy nose, 
and give up chase to hear the roll 
of his call.

But I cannot presume
to know why, or where, he should appear 

and sternly say, “come here!”  

when I am a lender of words
to his wandering soul.