Shut the front

door behind you.

Turn left.

Turn right.

The path on the right is

hidden

between houses crowding

it out of existence.

Follow the path as trees

begin to march along the sides.

Cement changes to dirt as leaves build up over the years

soft and comforting beneath your bare feet. They whisper

of ages past and seasons lost, singing

to the murmur of the brook as it dances

over stones. The seasons spin as you step

down the hill through the cathedral of trees

and the woods come alive. Colors spin through

white as winter, brown as spring through

summer’s green and autumn’s red.

You’re there.