Footprints

by Stephen Wilson

You kept a record
of my first tooth,
first word, first steps.

Leaving the house now
after all those years,
my bootmarks are diamonds

in the mud outside
your door. Next winter
the sole’s lattice will be pressed

in the memory of snow,
lasting only
as long as the thaw

and in time my track faint
as rain, nothing but a ripple
of displaced water.