Forlorn footsteps upon scattered leaves,
Encased in heavy russets and grays
Bark barriers bar the way
To silence. Nothing but wind whistling,
Yet a thousand anxious angry voices
On the edge, gilded corn flexes it’s brittle fingers,
Coaxing outer trees into the setting sun,
Into the field basking in yellow splendor.
Blinding, overwhelming, beyond the trees,
Far from my grasp, this dim dense wood
On the edge I’m bound between the trees,
Touching life and yearning for freedom.