A string of paths criss-cross the winter meadow-
tracks of fox and deer
prove the passage of time under the moon.
But this morning,
it’s the small dog and me,
up at dawn,
moving quietly on our morning walk.

I woke from a dream of you,
the smell of hot asphalt
and stale truck stop coffee lingered
as did the sound of your voice,
laced with gravel and cigarettes,
and the twinkle in your blue eyes,
set in the well lined map,
of roads traveled in your long life.

Hurrying toward home,
the small dog and I,
fog drenched,
walk up the rocky lane.
The smell of hot coffee greets us
at the end of the road.

*** Twelve Days of Angels, Day Two