I
look
westward.
Those meandering paths,
brittle stone atop them,
once offered me guidance.
The fresh hues of Fall have since
stolen the lingering youth of Spring.
A butterfly flits by,
acting as a muse
for my nostalgic reveries.
I lay under
a cascade of fallen leaves,
Entranced.
Their delicate descents
cradle the breeze,
no sorrow to lament
as they nourish the trees.