Photo by S. Zeilenga
When autumn comes, I look back
on the trail I’ve just followed,
hoping to find out where I’m going
while becoming lost in the loneliness
of where I’ve been. Here and there
I see my footprint pages, those wandering
thoughts and feelings about this, that,
me and you I didn’t know I’d left behind
until I looked back. Back where I was lost.
The maples, in their majestic magic,
drop their poems, too, allowing
today’s skies to grow within their branches
with each beat of the wind, showering
us with the color and aroma of something
leaving the trail toward tomorrow
to a leaf-lined tomorrow, shushing our
sad memories to wind-swept whispers,
and keeping our secrets between
the journal pages they safeguard
beneath their shadowy hands.
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