Footsteps

 

How many feet down 

are my footsteps 

embedded 

in this earth, 

in these paths, 

around ponds,

and through the woods? 

Are they now incorporated 

in the crust,

miles deep and 

a decade down?

Stepping out

when things have been

unsteady.

Stepping on roots 

and stones,

crunchy pinecones 

and mossy logs.

 

And my footprints 

are solitary or

once

were followed 

by smaller feet 

and then,

later,

bigger feet. 

My footprints are next

to a friend or,

for a time,

alongside the paw prints 

of a dog,  

as anxious as I,

ready to walk it out 

or 

ready to just remain

with me 

wherever I was going 

because

where I was going

he needed to be

too.

How far down 

do these footprints go? 

How long did I plant them 

when in a panic?

How hard did I pound them 

when I was angry? 

How much did I scar the earth

as I dragged myself

through waking hours 

feeling unsure

I was enough?

This is where I leave my tread:

in the mud 

and the debris 

on these paths 

in the woods.