Behind Me, My Footprints Fill with Powder
A mouse-gray sky dusts the hills,
softens the silhouettes of evergreens.
I walk alongside my adult daughter,
our words tiny clouds between us.
In the bay, the island is disappearing,
a ghost in the mist of whirling white.
When she was a child, I could gather her up,
say, the dark is just an empty room.
Fresh snow covers the blue woods,
paints each branch, each needle.
My daughter weighs my experience
against hundreds of google facts.
I catch a flake on my tongue,
taste the sharp crystalline beauty.
Behind me, my footprints fill with powder.
In this cold, you can’t feel yourself.
I cradle the phone as I listen
to my daughter
she’s Down Under
whisked away from me
outside a doe eats acorns
last spring two speckled fawns
followed her on wobbly legs
I left the grass uncut a bed
safe from wolf and coyote
with words my daughter paints a box jellyfish
its pulsing translucent body afloat
under the waves
pale poison tentacles
reach for her soft belly
I want my daughter home
I only say
I love you
the doe moves on