See the Footprints for the Ground

I see the footprints, and write of the ground
instead of the craters and fissures inbound,

instead of the litter and ignorant staining;
of damage, erosion, and constant complaining.

I write of the rain as if it weren’t silent,
as if it’s quite charming and hates all the violence,

as if Mother Nature wants one lump or two
and chides every postcard with puzzling views.

Perhaps it’s the bustle I miss most of all,
the rushing, the traffic and staggering sprawl.

Perhaps in the quiet, I’m ever alone;
the last in existence...sounds closer to home.