Walking Home

I wandered down the street––

My hands in pockets deep.

As bluebirds turn to home,

I walked and thought alone–– 

Yet through the wintry show,

I saw a trail in snow.

And without further thought,

I turned down stairs and sought,

That stride left in the blast––

Just further down its path.

Each print, each print, complete,

I let no foot repeat,

For one to tell apart,

This trail we made at dark.

I knew where they had been,

And spun their snow print’s spin.

But like a bashful thought,

That miracle I sought,

Turned east on Market Street––

Unrolling my defeat.

With sigh and head hung low,

I stood there in the snow—

And shook away the crust,

That covered me at dusk.

Photo by Herr Bohn