The Drain Awaits


First-lit bootprints show my stalker:
that fanatic who never made an enemy
she didnít like.

Snow stays high on ground and sky;
its fall seems merely perpetual
and pathetic.

The gentle hill hardens with hedges
as my expiration hangs around
glittering air.

A houselight goes off without fuss
somewhere overhead when the crow calls
a mate.

Iím left with every road ahead declaring
the next while my tracks track
until slush.
Sarah White

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Sarah White   would be pleased to hear them.