I am prone to search the snow covered path each winter
for footprints, where your boots crunched the frozen crust,
cracked through to the crystalline powder underneath,
proof your words echoed here in these winter winds,
the shapes melted long ago.
Your voice doesn’t sound like I think I remember it,
the saved messages on my phone are from someone else.
Are you lost in the flurries outside, traveling through
the coldness of space; have you been reduced in my mind
to white noise, an infinite distance on an open-line,
or are you a sliver of twilight in the darkness,
a vanishing ray through a leafless stand of trees,
just there a moment ago, now gone.
From our path I look to the river and see geese vector down
in perfect V formation. They land on the river for the night.
The river’s serpentine length coils slowly. I watch as the tiny
flotilla glides to shore. Geese pay no attention to a river’s skin,
but I imagine its power, curling, waiting to strike again and
again. I am afraid for them until the last are ashore.