Detailed imprints are stamped in the fresh snow.
I carefully tread in their wake,
matching my smaller soles as best I can
to the massive shoes worn by dad.
I stretch my limbs and hop from island to island
as we make our way back up to the awaiting warmth of our house -
my father holding armloads of freshly cut wood.
While I proudly lug my piece behind.

Trudging my way through the mud I look back
at the younger me hopping from footprint to footprint -
promising with each jump that I would fill
his shoes.
Only now I see my own reflective gait.
Smiling I turn and continue up the muddy path,
crafting my own artful footprints in the squishy ground.