Dad

poem to my Dad

The wind runs its tendril fingers through my hair
and presses its chilled lips upon my cheeks.
I close my eyes and pretend it's him,
squeezing me tight and whispering
it's going to be all right,
that I can make it through another day.
A single tear traces a
cool track down my face
and lands with a soft splotch.
The mountains are synonymous with him.
There was never one without the other.
I stand, dusting grainy dirt from my jeans.
"Give her a hug for me," I whisper
and know the words are carried to heaven on the breeze.