Trudge
Jan 20 2014


Snowshoes have packed the trail,
so it's easy, making my way
in puffy winter boots.

I walk
raised above the rock, and underbrush.
Where I would have stumbled, last summer,
or been stuck
in the sucking mud of spring,
one foot half-out of its heel.
All I see is white,
but underneath

the beautiful leaves persist,

the weight of snow
and the slow heat
of decomposition
warming dormant soil.

To either side, the powder is deep,
tightly bunched tress

impassable.
I find myself stuck
on a pre-determined path,
circling back
to where I'd begun
on this narrow well-packed trail.

So I walk
in lock-step,
following the crowd
on its familiar path,
feel reassured
by force of habit.
We all thought we'd grow up
to be non-conformist
would find our authentic voice.
But now we trudge,
say we have no choice.

The dog darts off,
sniffing, burrowing
porpoising through the snow.
While my mind drifts into words,
picking at knots
in a tangled poem,
immersed
in a thicket of verse.

She goes easily
where I would founder,
is here and now
where I am absent.
Automatically,
one foot after
the next.