When I think of you
In memory,
A warrior comes to mind,
But not as proud knight,
Or well-armored Centurion
Marching with Caesar’s legions.
You were in every sense
An explorer,
Like Lewis and Clark,
But born two hundred years too late.
I can still see the buckskins on the wall,
With muzzleloader above the woodstove,
A self-laid testament to who you were,
A scant four lives ago.

It is hard to believe
That you have been gone for nearly a year.
In every direction that I gaze
I see you there.
Your scent is in every room,
And as I wander in this forest
That you loved so well,
Your scent is on the wind,
Like wisps of maple or pine,
Stopping me in my tracks
Like a wary deer,
Muzzle raised,
Poised on the breeze,
Waiting to confirm
 What  sense of smell has said is there.

Everywhere around me,
Others have rung in the New Year
With joy and frivolity,
As I have remained within these four walls
That you built with your own loving hands,
Fulfilling both your dream and my own.
I am not willing to begin a new year
Of which you will not be a part.
This is not my world -
Not without you in it.

There have been times this year
When I thought that I saw your specter;
Saw through you, as that is the nature of your being,
Now.
I focused on these illusions,
Some close,
Some far-off,
Hoping so that it was you,
And in no way alarmed to be seeing ghosts,
For one does not fear a familiar being of comfort and love.

How can I make peace in this life,
And find joy, again, without you?
Those who love me know my pain
And are patient without jealousy;
This is the way of grief,
And patience is the road to healing,
Like a gaping wound
Which heals a layer at a time,
When sealed, etching a scar,
Marking you forever,
Not with loss,
But rather with the struggle of resurgence.

Now I sigh,
For my friend lies deep within the land,
Only to hear me,
But no words does he offer now.
Mine is the challenge
To rise again,
Born anew with fortitude
To a new role:
Mentor,
Beloved friend,
Loving father,
As you have taught me to be.