First to Leave

You woke before I did to the beauty of the world reborn,
left the house, left the silent lawn,
left your footsteps on the roads unmade by snow.

You crested the hill and looked down -- nothing before you
to follow, nothing to defy, nothing except to destroy the night's work.
Winter's blank forehead furrowed a bit more with each turn.

I woke at a less attentive hour and carefully followed your tracks,
as if another step beyond the first could make it less
complete, as if I, too, would break the morning.