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.
