Still Waters

This Way and That.

The first cut of the winter wind
has stripped the trees of their early autumn green –
leaving behind patchworks:
gold thread; red plush; the yellow hues of winter fruit;
Then later, like treasures lost, layer upon layer adorning the ground – 
laid out in brittle-crisp tints of transient luminescence.
Then kicking with a childish thrill,
boots akimbo, leaves are thrown
swirling and twisting through solid air;
then kissed by the breeze,
scattered here and there; this way and that.
And our boots, rugged; winter-worn
plunging deeply into mud and ooze
that the insistent rains brought forth.
This then, as we approach, you and I together,
to that point of indecision –
to that mist-laden hollow,
a kind of no man’s land with by-ways
leading here and there; this way and that.
Then you, beloved child of a broken dream,
place your hand in mine, in tacit expectation,
as storm clouds besmirch the perfect blue of a perfect sky.
I console you with soft words,
too afraid to reveal my fear to one so full of hope.
For you shall see things I shall never see.
I shall never see your future, as you see mine –
from story books – from histories told.
You are an uncharted map of existence,
stretching out into the void of empty days,
still waiting to be filled with your unique experience ­–
your special story. Yet for now, I am the keeper –
the guardian of the unknowable dream –
the chooser of the pathway –
the one that leads to love and to home.