After a summer of constant contact and artistic stimulation from both adults and younger folks, I return to the solitude of Yerry Hill Road. What a wondrous balance.
I wait to go out--
It's almost been a season
Since I took this walk.
Is the sun the same
As it bounces off the leaves?
Or am I different?
Now there's chicory,
Feathered plants and Queen Anne's Lace
In a summer's blink.
With liquid bells
Irrepressible stream flows
Into the dark woods.
Soccer ball on grass
Is waiting for the next kick.
Some things never change.
Decomposing log
Spawns a lush tiny forest
As it's receding.
Milkweed stalks swaying;
Gentle wind billows from woods;
A few leaves skitter.
Almost reached the top--
Ivy up the tall pole;
Will it stop and rest?
It's almost been a season
Since I took this walk.
Is the sun the same
As it bounces off the leaves?
Or am I different?
Now there's chicory,
Feathered plants and Queen Anne's Lace
In a summer's blink.
With liquid bells
Irrepressible stream flows
Into the dark woods.
Soccer ball on grass
Is waiting for the next kick.
Some things never change.
Decomposing log
Spawns a lush tiny forest
As it's receding.
Milkweed stalks swaying;
Gentle wind billows from woods;
A few leaves skitter.
Almost reached the top--
Ivy up the tall pole;
Will it stop and rest?
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