Traces

Traces

When a warm, soft breeze
filters through the spruce--
sighing, for it knows it cannot linger--
I feel your gentle fingers on my shoulder.

When dusky, slanting light
spills dappled shadows on the floor--
turning oak to gold--
I see you dancing, barefoot, like a sprite.

And when the sickle moon
sweeps across the dawning sky--
harvesting the stars--
I search among the dewdrops for traces of you.