Mine are the first steps this morning;
The path they set
Will merge with the grass
And disappear
As if I was never here
And never first to see this glorious morning field.
[A walking poem by an archivist, in the first field over the bridge (where the sheep sometimes live). A professional meditation. A second version of this poem ends "And yet". But the echoes there of the haiku - "The world of maya/is the world of maya/and yet/and yet" - feel too strong. That haiku was written on the loss of someone the poet loved]