Out in the middle of the vast desert appears
a strange sight suddenly-a tree of shoes.
I haven't seen it for years as we seldom
travel Highway 50 through desolate Nevada.
But it's still there, although blooming with
many more shoes than I remember last time.
I don't know who started this event or when,
but the tradition caught on and it is still there.
Making one ponder why would it remain:
an artistic statement, a garbage dump or
a realization of how transient life really is
with so many of our footsteps unremembered?