the snow,
the white, fresh snow
like linen on the ground
blankets the path ahead
and takes my foot prints as
a record of the past, now passed

it is the snow,
it is this evidence of a life lived
that will visit me in the end;
a journey to grandmother’s
for food and fellowship
long and away gone
that have been left like a brand
burned stark upon my mind
because i put it there
and cannot for the life of me remove it