The powder of
The morning road
Is a scroll
Of the night before:
The pitter of mice,
The rhythmical ka-thump
of snowshoe hares,
The pressed wedge toes
of white tail deer,
The clomping horse-size
hooves of moose,
The trotting pads of dog, coyote,
or even wolf,
The wide towed prancing
of little birds;

And though they are gone,
I read them still--
The print is clear--
I see their forms even
In their absence.

But dominant,
Dominant is the squiggle
Of pre-formed, man-made rubber:
Sign of moving metalic lunkers,
Conveyors of who knows whom
Or what,
Fake soulless nameless stripes
Worn into the soft
Surface of the wilderness.

And my own tracks?
Yes, pre-formed, man-made
Twenty-first Century rubber.
Too soulless?
Or will He who
In some time, some place
Reads them hereafter,
Read the soulfull striving
Of a very human being?

07/05/2002

Posted on 10/09/2002
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes