There is dew glistening on plants, like tears
There are voices in the distance -
I feel deserted
There is the sharp snap of twigs beneath an intruder’s feet
The sun shining through the treetops
Awakens
And revives me
There is a violent rustling of the leaves in the wind
They make me feel as though others are sneaking through
these sacred woods
of mine
In this private gazebo, I am at home
         in my own private place
In the ancient, fragile, withered and worn
black oak
This is my favorite time of year –
When all the trees and leaves are changing….
Metamorphic
Magical
Unnatural
As the brook flowed, rushing
The secretive purple loosestrife
Prevented peering, invasive eyes
In the pathway
Blocking, unmovable
The very ancient
   Fragile
Innocent souls.