(stream of consciousness)

puddles as pools as footsteps, the oddity of being on the dividing line on a map, always the corridor, wintry mix so they say, so it is, snowing one minute, raining the next, the pure white of barely an inch, devolves into ice walled pools that retain some structure, captured capsized footprints, preserved perfectly, for at least a moment, until the eventual slide into full on water, a frozen tide, lines that outline where I was just a second ago, proof of life I suppose, if however temporary, even those footprints on the moon will go away someday, I suppose, would I treasure those more, if I could ? more permanent than my little frozen steps across the temporary pond hopping in my driveway, all just a matter of the scope of time, the lens of passing, time, time has all the time in the world, and then some, mine just a fleeting trail of steps, melting into the ether, succumbing to the inevitable.