A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
the headless aftermath,
smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
the whir of sober birds
up from the tangle of withered weeds
is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
but a leaf that lingered brown.
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
by picking the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to carry again to you.
Forty years into this hike.
It still sways me to bent knee.
Remnants of a carcass and it’s debris.
Leaving as it arrived.
Degradation begins with the first snow.
As if…it and I had, somewhere else to go.
An effect of hallucinogenic thaw grabs a bygone broken bone.
How radiant the fictitious heat?
I hope to never know.
Yet, the struggle from inward calls forth a name.
A yearning for year long travel cannot be tamed.
Scurrying over embankments accosted with previous tread.
To the woods, I am constantly led.
Desperation marks mile one in the sound of Styrofoam steps.
Gawky forsaken rotted pine limbs.
Soon become a threat.
So difficult to gauge all myths lying in surround sound.
Far off crows.
Noises that are eerily familiar to a wilderness I used to know.