Some come to the door, leave a few footprints,
and others leave nothing, no sign, no mark.
It's clear how heavy or light the traffic’s been
from the way the dust’s disturbed in the dark,
from the snagged and torn strips of hanging bark
the eddies of crushed grass smells that rise and spin;
from the fireflies which leave en masse with their sparks;
the mesh of undergrowth - as it pales and thins.
And whether you’re here or not, this is the thing -
I still know your footprints, your touch, your heart;
and your distant trail weaves into my mornings.
The click of the door as it shuts and I start,
wherever I am, the middle, end or beginning;and you are, for that matter, on your part.