Out Beyond the Trees
Once again I find myself deep in the woods,
a cold fog settling around my feet, lingering.
like the tattered crow perched above my head,
the worn coyote, fur draped across his tired bones,
the last leaf to hold its hue in early Winter’s chill.
Here amidst the fog we wait,
For this is the place the traveler is known to walk,
his silhouette moving among the shadows of the forest,
a dark form silently passing through the undergrowth.
This morning we have seen him out beyond the trees.
He approaches slowly and our bones ache for him to draw closer.
The heavy years weighing on our flesh draw us to the earth,
bowing low, the dust a welcomed bed.
As he passes, the fog gathers around him,
and the dust rises up to meet him.
I am fixed on his form, hidden yet familiar.
The shuffling of his feet, a rustling, I know the sound well.
Its rhythm wakes me in the early hours, calling me to this place.
This place where we wait in hope that some cold morning
the traveler will beckon us to follow him out of the undergrowth,
to become silhouettes and walk with him out beyond the trees.