| Pressed into the earth like trilobites The spikey pinecones corrugate a trail Between the lake and woods. A foggy dawn Blurs the horizon. Waves play pat-a-cake Against the shore. A startled doe looks up, Recoils, then turns to leap a ragged hedge That with gray boulders forms the forest's edge. When I ran by here yesterday the ground Was soft — so why are there no footprints now Recording that I passed? I glance behind And there my spoor is plain. The next to tread Here cannot miss it. Will she also ask Where her own tracks have gone, and search in vain, Like me, in hopes that some faint marks remain? |
( ... after early morning jogs on country roads near Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, summer 2002 ... )
TopicPoetry - TopicLife - TopicRunning - TopicPersonalHistory - 2004-04-16
(correlates: JogLogFog2, Roses by Other Names, JudyReWilderness, ...)