Poetry

Dried leaves rustling beneath my journey’s feet,

I squint through the resting oak’s arthritic branches,

A low sun that fights its way across the vermilion-azure sky.

Breathing in damp moss from earthy gathered mounds,

Embracing the leaves’ destiny with the ground,

Alongside I become one with the earth.

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Brisk air casting its talons into my nostrils and lungs,

I feel the dying year’s homily make its way into my soul.

Give me a season to rest, I hear the earth’s petition,

And I promise you a verdant renaissance.

In the hints of rebirth that cool air and crackling leaves echo,

I say good night and good morning.