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Starting out this morning with no map,
keys like spoiled children
jangling their demands for ignition,
you directed your boots outward
into the new snow that looked so much
like blank paper and things unwritten,
the unactivated day.
Behind you, a trail of bullet
shaped imprints leading away.
If you were here, I'd tell you
how deer arrived at dusk
to complicate things,
shuffling the snow with their hooves,
nosing through the packed coldness,
uprooting chokecherries
which fell from our tree months ago.
I'd remind you how we watched
the last ones drop together
and regretted immediately
the jars of jam we'd lost
by waiting.
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