I HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS – BETTY NAEGELE GUNDRED

the familiar scraping 
on the rough pine floor.
Finally, 
he is home.

He said he’d be here soon,
his rambling days over,
maybe do some logging
in these north woods.
I get up to greet him,
aching for his embrace,
it has been too long.
Racing down the creaking stairs
he must hear me by now,
I check the kitchen,
the porch,
but he is nowhere . . .

Outside 
a new layer of snow
slumbers 
under a gibbous moon.
I look for footprints,
but there are none – 

I know I heard his footsteps . . . 
the metered clomp of boots,
scuffing tracks across the floor,
I know,
I did.