Footprints

A clean fresh plate of untouched snow,
Awaits a child, eager to go,
To walk, play, move in.

With every new sheet, a longing is sweet,
To mess up the snow with little feet,
So, left behind are footprints.

A precious indent left behind,
Where once feet trod, they left a sign,
Of running, jumping, dancing.

A trace of presence you will find,
Entrenched in snow to soon remind,
You of the standing, walking, skipping.

Older now, look by the ground,
you’ll see no new prints to be found,
but a warmth on the bench,
supporting satisfied feet,
that once walked, danced, moved.