The Poetry Society

Snow at the head of the valley.

A woman chooses her time.

And do I trudge sadly away?

No, I saddle up a line

from an old ballad, I go

With a good horse under me...

Hoofprints, hoofprints, little hoofprints

of my pride. All that's left of me.

I gave her all I am.

Cold such as this never kills

and neither will sorrow.

Don't lose your nerve

in the wastes below zero.

Learn how to travel

alone without love.

Hoofprints, hoofprints, little hoofprints

of my heart. Cupped flames I follow,

lit hollows in the snow.