I will still picture the lonely canoe
Gliding through the ghostly fog,
The amber leaves falling leisurely,
Rippling the lake's surface.
I will still feel my chilled lungs
Breathing in the crisp air,
Each breath running through my veins
Like the frost clinging to the windows.
I will still hear my father's voice
Reading forest fables,
His intonation lulling me to sleep
As it has for many years.
I will still taste the charred air
Of glowing embers by the lakeside,
As family gathers with maple spears
To continue the old man's tradition.
I will still smell the gasoline
Keeping my four-wheeler humming,
Granting me that annual sense of momentary freedom,
My helmet displayed as proudly as a crown.
These memories I keep stored
With old flannel sheets and hiking boots.
For these memories of autumn
I always will
Be thankful.

- p. winter