|
| |
Footprints
There is a sense of trespass
on this frost enameled morning
as I leave my footprints graffitied
across the white grass,
sending the noise of every step
to crunch my presence
into a wide, frozen silence.
I stop, marooned in the middle
of a crystalline surround
that seems so brittle that if I take
one more step I will cause
this fragile world to shatter.
It is so delicate, exquisitely beautiful
balanced on the edge of melt.
Even my taken breath seems
to send a threatening shudder through
its chambers. It would be good
to stay here, to be taken out of time
and become part of what is distilled
just below the quiet
of this blessed freeze.
But the sun now is coming through
the trees casting its rays across
the crusted ice. A thin, steamy mist
is rising. This lovely world is beginning
to melt and another is getting ready
to emerge. Birdwings brush the air.
My footprints are dissolving into grass.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
|
|