There is a wood
A jaunt from the house
Down by the walk
Under which the
Creek bed cuts a swath.
Around the time fall
Encroaches, the sunset
Sets the sky afire
Just over the canopy
Of poplars and oaks.
Strolling by, mired in
the thoughts a day spawns
and from which nights often
offer no reprieve
A mind finds ease
In the comfort of
Knowing when the rain
Falls the torrent this causes
Washes the debris from the
Bed of the creek, bending the
Tall grasses and breaking off
The loose branches that bow
And dip as if to sip the cool
Water at the height of the hot,
August afternoons which cling
To late summer's oppressive
Clenched fist.
The branches will soon dry out
and shed their summer dress
Littering the rippling water
as it cascades over smoothed stones
the crystal reflection becoming awash
in crimson, orange and yellow,
Mirroring the pink, purple and fire light
Hues of the sky above.
The telephone rings and
calls attention
back to the present.
It is time now.
That which is expected, yet
still dread dampens all,
and along with the
Natural surroundings remind
the only constant is change,
the only permanence is in death
and eternity only lasts as long as
one imagines.