i have listened to you call to the loons on the lake
since the first time i heard that haunting birdsong
the smell of you is parchment paper and love,
wood fires, newsprint, wool blankets and warmth
you belong to the misty mornings
when the sun rises silently over the trees
to touch the world with a soft golden glow
there has been a rasp in your voice
since before i can remember

your hands are soft, but your grip is strong
strong enough to climb the stick-straight pines
that line the shore without a handhold
strong enough to lift me up with every conversation
strong enough to hold a family together

the mist weighs heavily on me now
in a way it never used to
i wonder if you’re out there somewhere
hiking an unseen shore
or are you up another pine tree
clearing stray branches from the view?
wherever you are, i hope it has newspapers to rustle
i hope there’s a wood stove
and a small bedroom with an old TV on the nightstand
i hope the sunrise is magnificent
i hope you have someone to play cards with

loons call on the lake
and i cannot answer
in the distance i hear the echo of your reply