I saw your scant writing in the new fallen snow
like the tracks of Struthiomimus, or some other
dinosaur on two legs
stretched out across the porch -
in your awkward but bold rhythm
scratched like pencil marks in resist
and I tried to imagine your mind
as you moved about the bricks and wood chips
the east sun striking your right side.
What do you seek,
wish to know of this world,
are you as satisfied as you seem
or always seeking another seed
or both?
But your tracks seem the language
I need to decode before the snow
melts your tender words away.