©
Steve King
All
rights reserved
Footprints
in October snow
will
never outrun
lengthening
shadows.
I
may only listen
while
winds tear each tree—
leaves
in torment;
below,
brown grasses
barely
move.
I
know an old man
who
never leaves his room.
He’s
become annoyed
at
the sound of his own stylus,
cannot
think to see.
He
has written everything he can,
has
lived twenty lives in his mind,
and
known all he thought would ever be.
He
watches the sun;
listens,
too,
hears
the world moving,
slow,
coming round
to
claim its bounty back.
He
is willing,
for
the times are not his own,
newness
gone,
every
measure taken
so
far as he might reach.
Willing.
But
not just yet, he said to me.
No.
Not in winter.
