Dad says his favorite dream place
is beneath his old pine tree.
While leaning back against the bark,
he hears wind symphonies.
I watch him from the window-
his eyes closed, his face serene.
His life-worn shoulders rounded,
rough hands resting near his knees.
There's a secret in his stillness,
a something, I can't see;
I know my Dad is somewhere else,
not underneath this tree.
He's off in his own dreamland
wherever that may be.
And I fear this spot I stand on
while I watch him fly away,
is going to be my pine tree
on a none too distant day.
Where I'll sit and close my eyes,
strive to keep my face serene
and see the one no longer there-
my place to dream.
in loving memory of my Dad.
Image by Robert Balog from Pixabay