Footprints

Solemnly I begin my long march
Out into the newfallen drifts,
And with a satisfying crunch do I deface the purity.
But when the canvas melts, does my work remain?
The marks etched into white,
Are they etched still into green?
After the torrents of the spring and the tension of summer-
The blistering, boiling sun.
After the winds of autumn,
The dry winds whistling through the weeks of September,
When the leaves have cleared and a new snow fallen,
And all the ground turned back into white,
Will my footsteps be once again unknown?
Or will the brilliant but transient white,
Still shimmering with silent sonority,
Some visual reverberance,
Make them all the clearer,
That some wanderer may come upon them
And know that I trod here,
From whence I came,
And where next I shall find myself
Enfacing the firmament,
Effacing mortality.

Thought this one up on my way back from my English exam. Obviously it's just a first draft, and some of the wording is awkward and bulky, but, hey, I've got some time before it's finished. I may trash the whole thing. I hate the first line; "do my footprints remain" doesn't sound that good to my inner ear, and it just seems pretentious...