One foot

after another. Leaf litter crushed

by my tread whispers December.

Ice skins ponds cautiously.

extending thin fingers

of deceptive beckoning sheen.

The trail

like others turns retrograde

as I haul myself forward

future receding to times

where striding was standard

unworried by root humps or

angles

of descent, when we laughed

over summer corn, chins dripping;

wreathed by smokes of sizzling fish.

The colors of August

are muted by aids for walking

sudden

stumbles, inked columns

of gain and loss. Ahead

a slice of sky opens.

I steady myself, knock sedge

from my stick. Trudge on