Falling Snow
The snow whispers about me. And my wooden clogs Leave holes behind me in the snow. But no one will pass this way- Seeking my footsteps. And when the temple bell rings again They will be covered and gone.
Amy Lowell
The snow whispers about me. And my wooden clogs Leave holes behind me in the snow. But no one will pass this way- Seeking my footsteps. And when the temple bell rings again They will be covered and gone.
A lone walker moves through falling snow, hearing it whisper close by. Each step in wooden clogs leaves clear tracks behind, but the speaker knows no one will come looking for those marks. There is a quiet ache in that thought—being unseen, unimportant to anyone else.
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