Footprints

The pairs of footprints began in parallel

Sometimes overlapping in the overnight snow

I traced them across the dips and hollows

From where I stood next to the hilltop tree

On the last ascent to the cliff edge they parted

Until they each disappeared alone

I watched and waited until the last light faded

And the snow returned and covered the tracks

She was the sort of person

She was the sort of person
behind whom a door never closed forever.

It was always on the latch, on the jar,
in case she would think to turn around
or a cry would call her back.

But now the door is closed forever
and locked and bolted by another hand
with we remaining hammering on the metal
and she silent beyond.