...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIIgTP280YU

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It is autumn,

And the forest is aflame.

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I don’t recognize this trail.

Its elements, its trademark,

Its shape,

Branches, trees, color,

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Don’t harbor the familiarity

That mark a path I’ve walked before.

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                And I search for footprints,

                And I scan for trace,

                Scent, tactility,

                Forking indecision.

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And while I ply for recognition -

A foothold, an anchor -

The wind plays its passage

Between interconnected branches.

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                A bow across a fiddle -

                Action, effect -

                And the rustling

                Teases my wandering

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                As though withholding a little secret.

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I don’t know this trail.

But the wind does.

And as it laughs its way

Across the leaves that it’d liberated -

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                Falling

                With delicate grace

                Into the waiting rot

                Beneath the waiting, forest floor - 

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I mark a little X with my boot

So as to reassure

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                the next passerby.

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