By Keegan Flanagan 

Through endless winds and unmarked trails, 

I pat the dew drops beneath my feet, 

Down into the morning leaves. 

An autumn sun hangs distant in the sky above, 

Beckoning winter close. 

Windshields find their first morning frost, 

Only to have themselves scraped clean, 

Like the cold never came. 

I am lost in the scenery of an old patch of grass, 

Which seems all at once, 

Brand new and yet all too intimately familiar, 

Unchanged by the harsh suns of summer,  

Or April’s cold rains, 

And yet shaped by the bugs beneath the grass, 

And by my muddied footprints carried by an old pair of shoes. 

I too become a part of the grass this away, 

And take comfort in knowing that wherever I go, 

My footprint is always back home.