Footprints in Snow

The ice fell,

then the snow,

which froze,

which is now peckled

with the stepping of birds,


finally the sun. . .

and then these footprints,

my footprints

in the shape of those wide soles

of my fleece boots where

I walked back down the path

after I buried the little squirrel

behind the garage,

footprints now pressing

a glaze of ice into the grass.

I think about this passing,

the story of this passing,

and know that soon

the world will hold no memory

of it, or, soon enough,

of me at all.

These cares,

these tasks we set ourselves,

this moving to and fro

thru the weathers of our day,

under a blind

and merciful sun,

tell me,

what we leave behind,

is it more

than whisp,

or snow-melt?


footprints in snow


About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
This entry was posted in Footprints, Poetry, snow and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Footprints in Snow

  1. This is one of the most imoving pieces I have read in a long time. Hope you don’t mind if I share.

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