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