By the warm birch trees
In the cold.
I can tell it’s cold. —

The tall white birch trees
Stand like soldiers on guard
Witnessing your solitary march,
the falling leaves –
A ticker-tape shower
over the procession,
And the brown-orange royal carpet
laid out before you
All in your honor. —

What thoughts are on your back
dressed in shades of blue?
The tan woven pack
Hangs naturally – says everything
and nothing. —

Though motionless
I see your walk – plainly
Can hear the combined crunch
and swish
of the leaf-y carpet beneath
your boots.

To where do you go
That you never actually arrive
Though – it never bothers me
For then you’re there -always
before my eyes.

© L. Rose (1980s)

The photo is Uncle Jim – the quietest man I ever knew. My Grandmother took the photo. I miss them both. Thanks for reading! ~ Linda