Friend,
I know loss like
the
knowledge
that
snow seldom sticks
to sidewalks where we
walk, or
it stays soft for as
long as it takes a
running back prodiogy
to run for a
touchdown.
Touch down,
I know you’d hoped
his
feet would
touch
down on the ground
again, and hopes wanted
are dreams
scattered like pieces of
paper burned before they
turn to ash.
Ashes,
from the dust
and
smoke, the Phoenix rises
with wings where
the ends are finer than
the
arrow tips
we find
by the river as kids.
Kids,
the age of my
own
angel flying in galaxies
where I
wish
I could
follow, but I
rememember, as kids,
the excitement on your
face when you
said, “My dad,
my sisters
are coming here
to live.”
Snow
seldom
sticks to the
sidewalks
where we walk.
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Dedicated to one of my oldest friends, her Dad, and family.
Corrie's Season 