Hushed light painting a still December afternoon
A place where morning can never quite conclude.
Where the hills sit in long rows, waiting for something to call.
Somewhere here, a trail always searched for, old rusty sign dangling from the same branch,
Waiting to rattle on the next wind. Just like it always was.
Along the rocky slope, through the oak trees, and onto the more gentle grassy slope below,
So much more to trudge.
Little paths wander through the bunch grasses
Dried and standing tall, golden celebration of summer
On this eve of winter’s arrival.
Captured in a moment of exhale where nothing stirs.
A new dream now, with the old things scattered around.
There you lay, quietly trembling in tears
Falling and sliding down a long blade of grass
Maybe the only rain, this time.
You might lay here for a thousand years, finally letting the long grassy wands bend over,
To offer you comfort,
Or to cry with you.
Further down the trail, an old stone fence,
moss-covered, where the old men once sat swapping secrets
Told a dozen times over while the grass scratched and swayed
On a late August breeze
Letting in a moment of quiet to their familiar banter.