touch III

I touch this place lightly -
my feet leave no prints
I am the wind passing
over leaves and disappearing
unseen through the woods

all the young wood
straining upwards for
the sky, yearning for light,
will not know me
when they are older -
always fresh winds come
by, the old airs

gone onwards to
other worlds

but how quietly, how
softly does the sun strike
the bark with colour
moving shadows round the 
day
and when the leaves fall
in their years

they will not remember
the young kiss of me
in the morning of their age
when I was really here
and my feet left no imprint
on the ground
a memory fading
in the softness of the light

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