Walk home,

before the nightfall,

watch the leaves fall,

to the ground,

hear the autumn,

not a sound,

but the steps.

"Crumple,"

says the group,

as my feet,

hit the ground,

hear the rythm,

not a sound,

but the steps.

Look about,

see the buildings,

gray and rising,

'bove the ground,

hear the stairways,

not a sound,

but the steps.

Turn behind,

the cars are driving,

hot and rolling,

on the ground,

hear the pedals,

not a sound,

but the steps.

Staring forward,

the road is straight,

wide and distant,

paved the ground,

hear the concrete,

not a sound,

but the steps.

Peering down,

watch the porchway,

rustic hov'ring,

o'er the ground,

hear the wood planks,

not a sound,

but the steps.

Kitchen table,

Look around,

not a stepping,

nor a sound,

nor an autumn,

but the drapes,

nor a rythm,

but the clocks,

nor a stairway,

but the attic,

nor a pedal,

but the stops,

nor a concrete,

but the words,

nor a wood plank,

but the tops,

not a stepping,

but the raps,

of the fingers,

on the desk,

and the drippings,

of the tap,

and the silence,

of the rest,

no inspiration,

inspires the best.