Still sleepwalking through her life，

    I wrap her up and we go through the snow that fell all night and all through this Christmas morning：her trainers barely denting² the whitened lawn， her two strides for every stride of mine.

    Leaving her home to the warmth of the house I step back out， and see where my footprints turn and walk through hers，the other way—following the trail of rabbit and deer into the unreachable silences of snow.

    I can bring nothing of this back intact.

    My face is smoke， my body water，my tracks are made of snow.

    The next morning is a dripping thaw， and winter is gone from the grass—except for a line of white marks going nowhere：the stamped ellipses of impacted snow；everything gone， leaving just this， this ghost-tread，these wafer-thin footsteps of glass