To the Stranger

Shards of ice, boot-made
on the stream,
for years
outside the library
or failing kitchen window,
or beneath
fuel-oiled trestle-works,
or in my youth
of loved cousins,
near harvest,
or along the freshwater
shores of
inland seas,
or in the forests
grown over boundary lines.

I never knew
and never saw
the feet that
marked the places
wherein
I was overthrown.

To that stranger,
I say
that I once
watched my tears
freeze upon
the soles of my own boots.

For that
you may one day pay
with shards of ice
boot-made on the stream.