Snowshoes

...............
I'm actually posting without being prompted by Jesi. How's that for a miracle? This is a poem I wrote for my online poetry course, two weeks ago, and have only now managed a draft I actually like. It is, of course, far too late for the deadline.
Douglas Adams once said "I love deadlines. I like the wooshing sound they make when they fly by."
Well anyway. I'm not Douglas Adams, am I?

Snowshoes

The snowshoe hare
is one
with his feet
as he races the cloud of his breath
on the crust of the snow.
I, on the other hand,
have never been
one
with mine:
they are cumbersome
wire and wood
(and twine in the place
where I slipped
and they snapped)
and in spring
they are heavy
as heartache.

This year I have left
my feet
alone
in the woodshed
at home -
here I am
in the land of rain.
The island
of seldom-snow.

Rubber boots are light
as laughing,
made for splashing dry
through streams,
not standing firm
on powder.
Some days I forget,
tread mud across the carpet
in confusion,
trace my tracks
backwards
to try
to shake
this feeling
(I am wearing someone else's
feet).