Fall, a walk

in the woods, alone,

birds heard in the tall timber,

seen winging, a good feeling.

A drift of foliage

leaves limbs bare--

the wind blows a kiss

as if it knows I’m there.

Warmed by the cold breath

the sun sighs,

a tramp of the damp earth.

Squirrels scurry the furrows,

the crush of curled leaves.

Steps these same feet, hide n' seek,

once scampered beneath

these same trees—

a frolicking kid's fun runs

when we were fearless and young.

Among ground colours become

quilt covers my grandmother

might've patterned--a patch in which

I see me in sepia,

on umber my match,

her ochred old picture.

She existed, proof stored in a drawer;

still exists, because I recall.

Did I exist for these trees before?

Forthwith, familiar?

Do oaks growing old

hold trunks of memories?

Or, hardwood as hardware—tree-rings

careless, (unless I care)

except for life?--the only living things,

these, shared the same slice.

What does it mean that no one sees,

remembers this, but me?

What will it mean when I’m not here to see?

And because I care, spared,

when I won’t know these trees aren’t there?

.

© Helga Ross 2008