Howard Firkin
The woman tracing her erratic way
along the footpaths, through suburban night,
her footsteps leaving green night-vision light
of warmth and love, leaves traces of a day
she lit with presence, working, laughter, all.
The footpaths stamped with leaves, her envelopes
containing secret, folded thoughts, the steps
away, toward, around. Each path accepts
its walker tapping out her dreams, her hopes,
as skies allow their stars to shine or fall.

She has a destination, not a route;
a vision, not a map; she’s journeying.
Her thoughts are honed, obtuse becomes acute,
alive becomes her living and her being.