Dust on the Doorstep
Memories.
Dust on the doorstep.
Sun drops on surreal distant acres.
Wind slicing through blades of grass.
Fading scent of new-mown hay
long gone from the atmosphere
yet, still here;
still clinging
to the hush of the wind
Memories.
Hazy images.
Stories swirling in the dust;
wtories I thought I’d never forget.
With each passing day
they burn a little less brightly,
slowly drifting away
on a birch bark canoe
floating at the edge of my mind,
fading into the horizon.
The wind picks up speed
as the memories and my footprints
disappear with the dust on the doorstep
almost like they never were there.