footholes
 
Never mind counting
The grains of sand on a distant beach,
How many flakes of snow did it take
To raise the horizon, in one silent night,
Halfway up the cottage kitchen windows,
Framing the silled, discount poinsettia
On a purest white canvas.
 
After I open the draft-ridden door,
Shovel aside, with paced strokes,
The feather bed of first-fall
I will hoist the compost pail, and
Gloved and mukluked
Puncture a track across winter’s skin.
Tip the rotting fruits from sunnier climes
Into the squat, black plastic,
council-sanctioned compositor.
 
Returning, slightly quicker this time,
Along my own footholes
Hemmed by the slurred steps
Of the night’s trio of deer,
Hungered trinity, en route
Beneath my late-night northern lights.