I have become a connoisseur of foot-
steps, mostly mine: the pavement’s soft flat sound
before the city wakes; how when I put
my weight on ice beneath the snow, the ground
creaks like a ship at sea; the swish of leaves
in fall, their skitter and their crunch—the way
each season’s outings have their leitmotivs
and orient my steps in time. Today,
I walk. Tomorrow I will walk again,
I’ll let my body teach me solitude
and silence on the way. If sleet or rain
should come, then let them come; I’m warmly shoed.
I’ll force my steps past every house and door.
I won’t admit it’s yours I’m listening for.
Editor’s Note: This sonnet’s first line features a delightful enjambment that orients the reader within the cheery imagery of the narrative, until the last line zaps the heart still.
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