That winter snow piled up
to hip level. Every morning,
I broke the trail, pushing
my mountainous body thru
heavily drifted snow, glaciers
clinging to the wool of my gloves.
They all followed the wide path
left in my wake. A thin layer
of ice lay on the top of the snow,
creaking to break as I passed thru
solitary for these moments, traveling
thru trees and shrubery. Clear and textured,
its window distorted what was revealed
below. Years later, I travel these streets
breaking a path, my body now cuts
thru like a knife, though there is no one
to follow my tracks. My windows
are frosted, and my trail from lover
to lover is deep and uncharted.
Its been years since anyone
pushed their face against
the ice like window to my life,
but still, I turn back
I cover my tracks.