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.