I walk on black basalt, under a dark red sky. The road unwinds before me, between snow capped heights. On naked trees, vultures perch patient, as if they’re waiting for my slip. The path tightens. A skin of ice slides under my boot, and in the rocks I find a broken helmet, Half buried in snow telling me who never came back. Is she still there, waiting? Is she still there, waiting? Will they know my face? I walked home alive but not the man who left this place. I pass a burned out grove, Black trunks like faceless guards. A torn wire sways in the wind, And a ragged cloth blows, Like the flag of an army That no longer exists. Toward evening, a small light flickers in a window. A thin line of smoke rises from the roof. The smell of soup cuts the cold and reaches my chest like a hand I haven’t felt in years. Is she still there, waiting? Will they know my face? I have to reach that door, and melt the cold in their embrace. And suddenly I’m afraid of the quiet in that house, of their first look at me, Will they see a father, or a ghost the war sent back? I stop once more. Snow settles on the pack, trying to pull me down. But my Boots answer in the snow. Because if I don’t cross that door now no one will carry me in. She’s still there, waiting, I feel their eyes on my face I walked home alive but not the man who left this place. So I breathe and cross the threshold, snow falling off my back, hoping they can hold the father before the soldier cracks.
