Shut the front
door behind you.
The path on the right is
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.