I turned to see my footprints
leading from the azaleas
knowing that spring rain will smooth them
before anyone sees their outlines.
My feet have left a few prints
in some paths along a crooked way
like a creature limping towards staying alive.
The mud of back streets
have tracked my strides towards attempts
at fleshing out a wandering spirit.
I have flaunted earthy boundaries
with wooden steps wishing towards immortality.
I have walked through the curved rhythms
of my poems like a wayfarer.
All those lines brush purple streaks
into the person I hope to be.
Dreams of tracing
into a lasting moment
fade with years of scribbling on paper.
Near the shores of Calvert Island in British Columbia,
twenty-nine footprints were discovered.
Estimated to have been created
13,000 years ago,
they are the oldest human prints in North America.
This creature may have been heading towards
a tribal village to meet with leaders,
a favorite fishing cove,
or a rendezvous with the family clan for dinner.
He is remembered twenty-nine times forever.
My print in the wet concrete of my sidewalk
may be the only indentation of me that survives.
I hope someone realizes
I was going somewhere,
I was searching for something,
I was intent on becoming.