A willowy passage greeted us
threading a trail through a light wood
high with pine and robust elm trunks.
Frens curled and licked
ankles and shins
leaving damp sheen on boots
carefully avoiding sprawling roots  
there as reminders
nature can reclaim the trail
if and when it chooses.
Husks of beach nuts
dark open stars long pilfered of their bounty
littered a strech of eight paces.
She pointed to movement in the undergrowth,
a flick of leaves and scurry of a squirrel.
Taking my hand for balance and warmth
I lead her through the silence
fearing to breathe in case a breath spoiled the tranquility

breeze mournfully whispering
to the leaves of light's defeat
to night's relentless march
trampling time
while hungry shadows of doubt
congregating over each line
the pencil scratches
Itching to rhyme.
But inspiration dwindles
as does the day's sky:
a ripped up inky sheet of night.
Failure to capture images of mind in my write.

Rubbed drying earth from my hands,  
swabbed my brow with my shirt tail.
Jeans stained with mud and plant juices,
the shovel rests without complaint on the lawn (It's use to me by now).
Though my back aches
and blistered hands shake,
despite being beat and done,
working out doors
under the intense sun,
crawling with insects
stinking of sweat,
I feel more satisfied
than when I sit
in a clean office
on a comfortable chair
with only a phone to lift.

When called up,
or forced to do,
I can put forth a face
of confidence.
It's only a vaneer,
I fear
because I do fear.

Gone the tenderness
from april eyes
that gave home to mine
decorated with playful dancing light
haloing soft depths
portholes of night.
Gone the tenderness
to graceful flight
lost in slumber
they're closed tight.