The snow filled in his bootprints

like hooves in a sandstorm. My gramma forming

a fist forming a ball of packed snow

in memory. One hand cover,

one hand cup. Crunched a hard missile.

I pushed the little Sisyphus into something big.

Those years you believe

yourself in love have rare magic.

Snow melts as it must

to a soft grudge. And the prints gone.

And the man those prints made.

Powder of salts on concrete,

hardwood. Gramma leaving gloves

on the radiator. My dad said

there’s no suffering in whatever

comes next.