I follow a pig truck
down I65 redolent with spring.
Truckers roll their winter sleeves.
Dandelions mug from the berm.
Only the trees hold out, arms up
full of waiting. Not one green
among them. Still, they must
swaying like sisters gathered in
remembering the dance.
I head south to the woods
ten miles north of the Ohio River
to walk where I walked in a bad
leading my footprints down to the
sending my breath like icy ghosts
into the brush looking for my mother.
Today I return, looking for myself,
hoping, if nothing else, my shoes
will find me, divining in dirt
for the sole's zigzags, last seen
wandering in snow, repeating themselves
like first sounds over and over,
© by Alice Friman