I trace old footsteps in the dark
and fill them in with sidewalk chalk.
And if the morning rain washes them away
I'll do it all again the next night.
I find old flowers pressed between
the pages of old notebooks.
They crumble blindly at my touch
but the perfume of their final breaths
still lays upon the pages.
I scatter seeds behind me
so I might later find my way.
But if the birds get to them first,
I'll still find a trail
by the ghosts of trees that might have been
I keep a box full of old maps.
The roads have all got different names now.
But a road is a road is a road is a road,
and they all must go somewhere.
I trace old footsteps in the dark,
I turn the stained and scented pages,
I seek shade from a tree that never was
and make my way to where we'll meet.