Last night I dreamt of my father. He was not my father as I remembered him. He was another man, and yet my father. His face and clothes were from another time, Another place. He smelled of crisp, hard winter and clean, sharp air and winds. A short, bristling beard covered his cheeks— Hairs like small, dark wires. Blackish, matted stuff coated his lashes And covered his lids and forehead in fine grains. Stiff, dense hairs shaped his brows, And his lips were well formed and of a healthy hew. Dark, patchy shadows lay over his face. A web of translucent strands covered his cheeks and forehead. Here and there a hard, rich flood of color could be seen in his cheeks. The dark planes on his face spread out in grayish beams And blended with the winter smell of him And the smell mingled with the winds of him And jutted in hard, fast streaks down to the wet, black earth beneath our feet, And it was as if all were one.
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