By René Parks
Clinging oak leaves, a smudge of gold crayon
Wind and rain try to loosen their command
Underneath, roots link hands for winter spells.
Soggy pine needles dispatch sizzling smells.
Churning waters denote an overtone
Touching the crumbling faces of limestone.
Heart and feet drum the rhythm of my breath,
Demanding peace, anticipating death.
Windiness brushes cheeks with salmon slips
Clear, salty snot flows freely to my lips.
I let go of the thing that draws my brows
And shoulder blades tight. Knowing I must bow.
A misstep sprays gravel too near my face.
Body, soul, and mind struggle to keep pace.