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Three Poems

by Connie Wanek

Tracks in the Snow

          How was it I did not see that lofty sky before?
                 And how happy I am to have found it at last.
                                                                                  Tolstoy

He lived in the house closest to the cemetery
and after a fresh snow
he liked to ski among the headstones.
New graves had an incline and a downward slope
that was gently exhilarating.
If people cared they never said so,
and his tracks were plainly legible,
a practiced signature
leading to and from his door.
He was as honest as the snow.

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