by Robin Robertson

    Still sleepwalking through her life，

    I wrap her up and we go through the snow that fell all night and all through this Christmas morning：her trainers barely denting the whitened lawn， her two strides for every stride of mine.

    Leaving her home to the warmth of the house I step back out， and see where my footprints turn and walk through hers，the other way—following the trail of rabbit and deer into the unreachable silences of snow.

    I can bring nothing of this back intact.

    My face is smoke， my body water，my tracks are made of snow.

    The next morning is a dripping thaw， and winter is gone from the grass—except for a line of white marks going nowhere：the stamped ellipses of impacted snow；everything gone， leaving just this， this ghost-tread，these wafer-thin footsteps of glass.