If, like pathways, our habits

Lead through the foliage of

Our ways to foreseeable ends,

Then subtle and sure under

The silent stars

Those paths leave tracings

Like fallen Autumn leaves or

Dislodged pebbles whose

Shallow prints remain ‘til rain,

Or broken twigs of 

Metasignification which,

Pointing to some human end,

Implant in Time’s matters

Our retraceable haiku ways. 

Nature’s bias is

Abundant; the secret soul

Her surest seer.