|
About This Author
A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!
|
Following Footsteps My father, of a wintry morn, would cut footsteps in the snow,
his feet blazing a path to the spring, where I,
at first light, would go for water. Mountain snow would waft
deeper than my little legs, and thus, I had to follow his path.
My father, having a sense of humor, would sometimes meander
over to the pond or drift in waves; the trek longer then
and at return, with glass milk jugs of crystal water, one in each hand,
I’d wish for a more direct route home. Yet following in his footsteps
I saw the deer come off the ridge, watched late geese ski on frozen lake,
found little notes tied to a branch with twine: Make a snow angel here.
It, I found out later, was a quarter mile to the spring.
Older still, I realized, my father could have, simply, gotten the water himself.
|
© Copyright 2011 fyn (fyndorian at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
