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.