A poem

Most of you probably don't know that I write poems. That's because, in the general course of things, I don't, but occasionally I do make exceptions.

Footsteps

I follow footsteps in the snow.
My father's footsteps;
Feet I have followed for years.
In light snowfalls
On the way to school;
In heavy snowfalls
To a sledding hill;
Through deep drifts,
Forging a path
For my own child-feet to find.
And yet these footprints are not his,
For I am here
And he is not.
But still the footsteps lead
And I must follow.
I could not tell you how his footsteps look,
Nor draw them with a pen;
But when I see the steps
I know my father's boots;
The treads splay out in just that way.
And yet these footprints are not his,
For my father's footsteps fall far from here.