Footprints in the Frost
It is a cold sun that rises over the quarry.
Too late in the year for warmth.
Still, there is value in light,
in the details only a November sun can reveal.
My feet crunch on the grass beneath your feet,
leaving temporary footprints
of broken grass and shattered frost.
I are, it seems, easily traceable.
It has not always been so.
I was raised in a family of secrets,
where shadows were our comfortable place.
As I aged, that childhood comfort became less so.
Better this. Footprints in the frost.
Follow me if you like. Or don’t.
For better or worse,
you will always know where I am.
About this poem
My father was an alcoholic. A good man who I loved dearly, but an alcoholic. Our life was spent trying to keep his secret.
The older I get, the more open a book I become. Particularly in sharing my emotions, which was not encouraged in our house.
The picture was taken on the quarry about my house.
From those things, this poem.