Leona Choy
Crisp, frosty mornings cycle again
in a season of reflection, pensive nostalgia
granting me permission
to stroll the back roads of my mind
while wading ankle-deep in the pain-splashed carpet
kicking up waves of oak and hickory leaves
inhaling the musty mulch beneath my feet
while munching the wet crunch
and tart taste of a freshly-picked Jonathan.
Here I can smell peace, forget schedules
concentrate on important things
like scampering squirrels
scurrying to stash acorns for winter larder.
I filter out all but the traffic noise
of wing-flapping, honking geese
heading South in the fast lane
while I take the exit ramp
to a blue line country lane
deliberately dragging my feet
trying to slow down my speeding life
that always seems to be
running a marathon ahead of me.
# END
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