In a field of soon-to-be crops
Fresh growth tickles my skin,
I navigate clouds swimming
Across the sky as they blanket the sun,
The air cools only briefly as a breeze carries
A comforting scent of new life across my face.
At brook harboring water to its end I lean-
Over an iron barrel that bridges the walkway,
My fingertips dance atop the water, grazing leaves
As they glide through-
Only to muddle at a lone branch suspended between banks.
My hair hangs like the long-stretched branches
Of a weeping willow tree thirsting to drink from the water below.
Their tips dampen, shrivel and fall cold upon my neck-
I stand and they nestle against my skin as if for warmth.
I take a path through the woodlot-
With a stick as my guide I comb the understory-
Sifting cool tiny fragments of earth through my fingers
Investigating veins that surge through a leaf.
I trudge along the path canopied by the ageless trees staring down
Like watchers; I reach the edge looking back-