The mess we leave,
We make our mark
Upon this place
Where we've been left.

The clatter the clutter,
The bits and bobs,
A crumbled leaf,
An empty box

Poured into all
These little things:
The passage of
Our life laid bare.

I have measured my life
In rizla packs and coffee cups,
Worn out soles and washing up;
Empty vessels filled by my touch

Transfigured, transformed
I watch them turn
Into players on a stage,
Into words on a page

But these objects have been touched before
In a life they lived, back when
Once they sang another's song
And soon they'll sing again

Unplanned symphonies composed
By the dragging of our toes

The soles of our feet
Are honest poets
Our footprints:
Their most sincere verse.