The Walk

Whispering echoes of the wind that gushes by

Tells me to step softly on the leaves, resting upon the ground

And which through their rustle in the death of autumn

Are in the final talk with the whisps of wind

There is wet black earth below the leaves

That faithfully carries the impression of each foot

The mark of each who treaded the land

Faithfully and loyally... Emotions that are extinct otherwise

Drops of rain that travel at a slant ... Albeit slightly

As if trying to delay the inevitable... Fall...

As if trying to avoid the soil... Just as one avoids one'e relations

There are trees that suck up the water... Greedily...

Quenching the thirst that a long, warm and dry summer brings along

There are millions of creepies that suddenly find their trips..

Elongated from just underneath the top layer of soil to above

There are men and women who find that wet hair does not dry off

In the blink of an eye... Or the bat of an eyelid...

There are dogs that appear cheerful... Trees that appear greener...

Roads that appear newer....

Too much for a dour mind going for a walk on a cold, wet autumn evening...

(written in 2005)