The Marked World

I like the marks

that life leaves upon the world,

the intricacies, subtleties,

scuffing perfection in exchange

for a story, a tale to be told,

remembered.

The scrapes on my bedside,

once black, now lined grey,

my dog tapping the frame,

asking permission to jump -

unaware that his claws

mar the flawlessness,

carving himself into my world.

The dirt path made by walkers,

treading out a path

lined by wild grass,

an invitation to explore,

'Follow us, we've been here before,'

a guidance to the new,

the wisdom of the old,

a world to behold.

The scent of a pillow,

you lay here once,

a lingering aroma from

the quietude of night,

at peace, safe, trusting

to rest beside me

after the hardship of the day

has faded to starlight.

The delicate touches,

sprinklings of humanity,

of oddities, curiosities,

like children, innocent,

asking, 'Why?'

shaping our small worlds

into vessels of history.