The football field-length gravel lane that leads
back to our house begins and ends in concrete.
In June, the front lawn that it runs through needs
a mowing every week. But now two feet
of snow conceal the lane. The morning star
shines in the dusk beyond the curbside snowdrifts
at the shoveled road. Some juncos stir
above the deep, fresh prints or waders’ glyphs.
My father fumbles for the end of the lane.
Blind, he feels the snowfall underfoot
become the shoveled drifts or road. He strains,
with bags of trash, and keeps himself upright.
He leaves them near the curb and turns to face
the boot prints that he stomped and must retrace.