The feathery air, of
The ocean-blue skies, clearer now than a newborn�s eyes.
Of every vanquished tree lying in its forest floor
Deathbed.
Of each battered pebble that lines the trail I tread
Upon.
Of soggy meadows after rainfall,
And of the caressing sun.
Look at the needlepoint in which
Tangled tree limbs
Puncture the fabric of the wind.
Nothing marks the passage of time
Except the muddy imprints of two feet and
A walking stick.