This day has the cold, far haze of winter
on Lake Erie.
A trench of white fogbound waves
ruminating on the shore.
I see past the curvature of the planet
through the limestone mist of the
earth itself, the hundred miles
from my home in Columbus.
My father stands by me.
His eyes are frost.
He lives now where one can touch a dream.
Open a window, a generation old
and smell the air.
We have a way of being with each other.
Of understanding what the world is saying.
Of knowing what we feel.
Nothing ever leaves, becomes bramble
in the wind.
This shore is a rendezvous
where we look out.
Which makes us glow in the cold.
Where the epiphany of time
returns us to the destinations of our life,
the winter above us.