By the end of the week, cold will set in.
These are the last warm days and much
remains to be done. Nevertheless,
I can’t resist the call of the woods.
I haven’t been to the pine grove in weeks,
and although the maples have shed their leaves,
the oaks remain. I can’t resist. I don’t even try.
Once I am there, my boots brushing through
heaps of leaves, I find myself back in childhood days,
when all along the bay, the men would make
great piles of fallen leaves on the sand at the waters edge.
And we children would dive atop them shrieking,
expecting them to be soft as pillows,
but of course they never were.
And when the men had finished their raking,
they set fire to hills of leaves, and the smoke
from the fires would billow and rise, riding
the south wind out to where the water met the sky.
At my feet, leathery oak leaves cover the ground,
tucking themselves around a fallen log, a young pine
adorned with fallen needles. I notice I am wearing
a soft smile, despite that slight air of sadness
that autumn often brings. I remember the fragrance
of burning leaves and inhale the scent of these woods.
I listen to the whispers of the leaves beneath my feet,
a once-a-year song. And in my heart, there is peace.