Asphalt to gravel to dirt;

The frenetic din

of struggle and strife,

of phone calls and politics,

and worries and duties,

falls away

like shedding skin,

to the rocking rhythm

of the road less traveled.

 

The forest is there,

waiting, faithful, sure.

 

Today she reserves a special welcome

for a visitor absent too long.

An arch of maple leaves beckons first,

lemony yellow in the late afternoon sun.

Riverside, milkweed pods spill 

silken helicopters into the playful wind

that ripples the surface of the stream,

a mirror abstracting

swirling reds, oranges and ochres,

as the oaks and maples 

on the opposite shore

watch their reflections dance.

 

Breaking the spell,

fallen leaves swirl and scud 

chasing, twisting, bunching;

a mad choreography

rippling the surface,

carving through the liquid shimmer; 

confetti punctuation.

 

Everywhere and nowhere

the wind darts,whispering delight;

the crowns of the trees

join the dance,

swaying against a bluebird sky.

 

Late afternoon sunburst flashes

through black branches

of svelte, demure birches

sheltered among placid cedars.

 

The clean scent of the water

mingles with the peaty, piney smell of 

the forest floor. Spicy autumn 

busily absorbs this season

and readies for the next.

 

The bustle of summer is over,

say the trees and the wind and the river

Now is the moment to

breathe

savour

rest

be.

 

We will be here always,

they sing in their rustling chant

We will wait for you.