Maybe my father will be there,
and his beard would be
red again, youthful from the
promise of a crisp autumn and
grey skies.
I will be barefoot, and
maybe there’ll be a
hand outstretched.
Maybe a strong one,
maybe a slim one, or
maybe I will be nothing but
some figure carved of
Canadian Shield, a
silhouette in a
darkening forest, and
maybe.
Maybe I will be alone,
but I will have hope,
and the rumble of a
thunderstorm off the
horizon,
calling me home.

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