The Primordial Trace

We can strive but never get there. Is that not what we say when we meet? We just dream of that glowing orb within the folds of our rumbling flesh and mind, within and between our opaque words. I dreamed of smelling cold spring grass - no words were needed to explain the scent. We trace and trace again. We follow to where the stepping stones are sundered and the footprints dissolve. The natives of our youth waves in the distance, as if greeting the ones coming home - home to rest and play. But reaching for it proves its illusory nature. Yet you with your childish ways, you trace and trace again.