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

I held ice tight

I held ice tight in my hand
water trickled from my fist
to my forehead

Then my hand was empty
but my fist remained
blood frozen in its veins

I rubbed knuckles on my eyes
my heart drum noised
my temples throbbed

All memories swirled in snow
all memories swirled
in snow

The snow hushes

The snow hushes my complaints as it slushes off my umbrella. “We’re sorry”, it says, “we’re April snow but we didn’t know”. It lies at my feet, is translucent and melts. Over the wall the river is rising, brown foaming.

Light slices in

Light slices in through ice-swirled windows, high-piled snow deflecting its morning angle. Inside the room hot breath and sweat hang like mist, and fog the floor-length mirror. A finger could draw an arrow or a heart, write a promise or a threat. For now, like the overnight snow, the mirror remains inviolate.