Cycles

What is real, what is now, what was then
what is to come after? We all leave traces
of our steps, of our exhalations, of our dreams.
It seems we count for very little as we travel
through, but our trails count, threads woven
into tapestries. Cloths folded in, wrapped around,
our passage. We leave
stones, imprints and shadows. Small miracles
of kindnesses become recycled in our wake.
Toiling through our allotted time, mind well
our marks matter. Do not grow hollow eyes
or sour hearts. In time, our own demise
will mulch the ground for those to come.