At what point do we take the path without footsteps?
It lies there to our right, waiting:
The detritus of decades' worth of leaves bury the dirt,
The branches of pine and oak create a passageway,
The blue and white sky beckons.
It's a hard thing, of course:
The course we are on is the course we have always run,
the dirt tamped hard by those that have gone on before us,
the way broad and clear.
But always there is the stress of this path:
the hurry, the rush, the maneuvering among others,
the sense that the faster and faster I go,
the farther and farther I fall behind.
And then I see it again:
seemingly abandoned and without footprint,
waiting, almost inviting the weary traveller
to rest their feet off the hard trod ground on soft leaves.
I stand, buffeted by the fact I am stopped in a unending flow
going where I know not in pursuit of that which matters not to me.
And then I see a single imprint at the head of the path:
Can the heart leave a mark?