The trail never changes,
still snakes between
highbush blueberry and rock,
climbs hills, crosses fields,
returns to where it begins.
Viburnum mist cloaks the way ahead
but the crunch of my footsteps
on last year's leaves
is all the navigation I need.
On each side, firs compete with oaks
to see who can block the most sun.
For a time at least, the deciduous triumph
over the tall green lords of winter.
I find the pond where I once scooped up tadpoles,
run my fingers down the deep furrowed bark of white ash,
listen to the caw of the unwelcoming crows
and the piping curiosity of chickadees.
All is as before.
A forest is memory outside the head.
THE BOYHOOD TRAIL by John Grey | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
