Poem: Footprints in the Frost

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.

Tom

2 comments

  1. Really resonates. Many of your reflective poems do. Quarry surroundings tug at my curiosity.
    I, too, grew up in a house of shadows (alcoholic dad died while I was still in high school) – took many years to shake the keep-it-hidden mindset. Since midlife I leave poem “footprints” (retracing past and exploring new territory).

    • I live in a little town in Vermont that was once driven by slate quarries. They were mostly abandoned in the 60’s. I have them across the street, back behind my house, and just past three houses, to one side. THey are wonderful places to walk through.

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