They fell as we say they do
across the path as I walked gently
not disturbing a thing or so I
told myself.
Each blade of grass, each tender shoot of growth and wriggling worm no worse the wear for my passing.
A short cut, as we can so easily name it. Yet
as I pass through the tall stalks and watch them press in behind me, falling, folding,
I wonder
have I really left no mark on the world?