if you place a stethoscope inquisitively on the
beating chest of your life, expect to hear a -
plod, plod, plod.

you'd think it to be the footsteps of a
fumbling toddler; fumbling feet
feeling the flat, alien earth.

or the muffled footsteps of a stranger
stumbling into your path, turning your
tables, stumbling into your life.

you could regret that it wasn't your
feet's soundless plodding on the moon,
that there was no greatness in your silence.

while at times you remember
the footsteps of friends converging
into your life - diverging from it.

and then to cease all speculation -
you recognise the footsteps
of god at your doorstep.