Blots

|Footprints|

Dry, pathways with grey motes strewn.

A boot here, a boot there fall in tune.

And left behind are lips of dust,

Little craters that smirk at the moon.

The dust over here is soft, you know

It bends easy as a pained eyebrow

And thus has it its face disgraced

One over another, two in a row.

And some are timid, pathetic in being

At first whiff of the night breeze fleeing,

And some betray through cracked old grins

And sustain marks favoring their kin.

And some dance myriad as spider webs

And some are trophies of blind missteps

And some, I reckon, won't dry in days-

And some are parched as empty threats.

And some like suns, distinct and fresh

And some like rains, soaking depressed

And some a staff are assisted by,

And some are simply round indents.

A wheel forms pathways in pathways

That smile and gape as moonlit bays

The wind blows hard, indignant at defeat

And leaves of pine these cracks embrace.

The boots are playboys, long moved on

Today by a different pathway borne,

But prints, and leaves, and winds still pray

And pine for their embrace each morn.