Steam Rising

Feb 07 2012

The road ascends

roughly north.

Away from the temperate shore

into thin astringent air.

There is open water

on the big lake

all winter long.

In the calm

steam rises

from its dense black surface.

But here, trees are sparse.

The cold has a sharp

relentless edge.

And heavy silence

amplifies

my footsteps.

It stays light, these days.

But dusk comes quickly,

and night falls

like a heavy door

slammed shut.

They say we tend in one direction

I’m not sure which,

switch-back, and circle

to and fro.

Deep dry snow,

sinking over my boot tops

stumbling uncontrollably.

I burrow in

deep and warm.

Until morning

I hope.

When we pass

our names are written in stone

which we presume will last.

Mine is written in snow

by frozen hands

going fast.

Perhaps, at dawn

you will see my breath

retrace my path.