You tread lightly on the world
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I woke at 3 a.m. one night last week, and scrambled for my bedside pad in which I jot down song/poem ideas. Rather than do my usual trick of making tiny tweaks then reverting them back and forth for a decade, I’m posting it now. It may get carved up for a song, or may not.
You tread lightly on the world.
You like to. You scorn roots.
One foot in front of the other,
you go now:
tread from ocean to ocean
in Brownian motion,
seeing-not-being,
a ghost in the sunshine.
You photograph children;
You want none — you tread lightly.
You tread lightly on the world.
When the grass you stand on
springs up;
when the gecko you startle
comes back;
when your hollow in the bed
smooths away;
when your footprint in the sand
fills with sea;
when the daisies you flatten
take root again;
who will remember you?
I will.
(Anna said the last line is superfluous, because the act of writing shows the subject is remembered. I think Anna’s too subtle.)