Snow Underfoot

 

The crunch of the snow under

my boots, the familiar sound,

as I walk. Reminding me of all

the Winters I’ve spent,

walking through it.

The sound of it sending me

through time.

 

Walking to Grammar school

in the deep snow piles of the

1980’s, the trudging through

the snow to high school in the

1990’s. The late nights, leaving

a high school sweetheart’s house,

hoping to get home by curfew.

 

The late nights leaving bars,

the late nights knocking on the

wintry door of a lover, snow piled

high in front of her door, hoping

to be quiet. Of nights of knocks

unanswered, stupidly standing

knee deep in snow, shivering.

 

The snow, a deep part of my

memories; growing up along

urban sidewalks, some shoveled,

some not, cautiously stepping, so

not to slip and slide and fall into a

pile of broken bones. Walking like

a penguin, a waddle for safety sake.

 

Wading through the snow pack,

to get to her bed, to get to her arms,

to get through the night and hope the

snow will be melted, or shoveled or salted

when the morning arrives.

Pants and shoes dried by the heat vent.

 

The snowy Winters of discontent,

the snowy Winters of appreciative warmth,

the Winters of solitude and of company,

the snow bound nights of late drinks till

the scraping plows echo through the

early morning.