By M.R. Baird
I woke up to a world of white
You up in that forest, still
Walking on the newly fallen,
Down the path you knew so well,
Tallest pines bent down heavy
Greet the morning,
Full to breaking,
It’s what I think of every time,
Remembering my first, your last
Memory of home,
And when the storm has gone,
The softly falling snow replaced,
I close the book inside my head,
Having traveled in your footsteps
Once again, a new day’s verse,
That broken trail, a single track,
Yours I think.
Rachel Baird spends her winters walking Dogfish Bar for poetic inspiration.
