There is my past

This is my face reflected in glass. This is my sea of wavering grass. Pictures of wings that dance in the sky, delight the soul and wonder the eye. There is my knapsack, filled to the brim next to the lake where we used to swim. This is my storm. These droplets of rain fall on the dog that pulls at his chain. Hear my breath escape from disaster, quivering magic spurs me faster. These are my feet, forgetting their way, these are my footprints, long washed away. And these are my hands, reaching and blind always towards home, but too far behind.