A Story of Home

I try taking photos
with frozen fingertips,
so I can share
what I've known:
Honey filled fields bowing
to indigo mountains,
both made the same
by three inches of snow.

I walk through crusted mud,
two feet from my father
and ask him where
his heart belongs.
With two free hands
he embraces the wind,
breathes in with closed eyes
and dissolves into sky.