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
The gentle hill hardens with hedges
as my expiration hangs around
A houselight goes off without fuss
somewhere overhead when the crow calls
Iím left with every road ahead declaring
the next while my tracks track
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Sarah White
would be pleased to hear them.