New snow’s made our yard a white slate,
a Winter tale written out in shorthand.
Where deft paws notarized a path to the trees
our weighted bouquet of New Year’s balloons
wind-dragged across. And here,
something stepped softly and left
no mark, no clue. I turn my attention
back to the table where you sometimes sat.
Week-old white tulips sag in the vase.
When I carry them to the sink
the spent petals fall to the floor
like an unbroken line of footsteps.
