I traced his tracks in crunching snow, <br />printed crisply under the solemn pines: <br />they left a trail like doubt in doubt— <br />shuffling in murk, as if for signs. <br /> <br />I figured him lost, at least in thought— <br />he stopped at clearings and, by rite, <br />stepped off their space, as if he sought <br />some portal into larger light. <br /> <br />The stranger's prints began to fail <br />when wind and snow whipped up a whine; <br />out of the wood, I lost his trail: <br />the only footprints left seemed mine.<br /><br />William F Dougherty<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-stranger-50/
