Leaves and needles hide the trail
boulders just trip hazards now. Watch out.
Watch for life. Acorns. Cones and needles. And death.
We think it is other. Life.
Something other than this.
Than what we live. Or lose.
It isn’t.
Obscurity and autumn,
secrets tease early winter
waiting beneath ankles
slipping or twisting.
Forest debris thick with leaves
that have all abandoned their trees. Nothing
stays put. All revealed.
Keep walking.
Life is something
other than this. All this leaving.
This leaving. Not living. No.
This no. This no. It is not
living. But it is.
It is.
Keep walking.
pocket poet 
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