[39] Tracks, Adele Evershed

I watch from the window and my anxiety eases as a light snow covers the shuffling tracks I made today—they were snaking around my garden in long waving lines—saying good-bye to my right mind—I needed to go to the postbox adrift in the plowed snow but my tracks do not lead there—now they are gone and I don’t know where I went—I trace the long lines from my nose to my mouth—they don’t seem as friendly as wrinkles—maybe tracks made by tears are angrier appearing more like fissures to swallow up who I once knew I was—I push up the soft dough hanging from my jaw in a vain attempt to see who I still might be—I can see the foamy tails of the deer—delicate legs paddling through the blank snow shore—they walk the same track to their woody home each and every day—etching themselves deeper and deeper into my space—if I follow them—make my feet small in their tracks—I know I will find my way to the woods again.

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