by William F Dougherty
(In Frost country.)
I traced his tracks in crunching snow,
printed crisply under the solemn pines:
they left a trail like doubt in doubt—
shuffling in murk, as if for signs.
I figured him lost, at least in thought—
he stopped at clearings and, by rite,
stepped off their space, as if he sought
some portal into larger light.
The stranger's prints began to fail
when wind and snow whipped up a whine;
out of the wood, I lost his trail:
the only footprints left seemed mine.
Posted on 09/10/2012
Copyright © 2020 William F Dougherty
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 09/10/12 at 12:27 PM|
A lovely write and who among us has not been lost at some point in life. If not then they haven't looked inside.
|Posted by Christel Crews on 09/10/12 at 12:59 PM|
what a lovely write - was it yours all along or an invisible stranger guiding you back? lots to think about here.. you leave me questioning and wanting more :-D
|Posted by Bertram Sparagmos on 09/26/12 at 07:47 PM|
A reflective and direct read, which I have come to appreciate. Thank you for this.