Ways of the trail.

Stepping on and over

the varicose roots.

We traverse and converse

while trees pass by

and a chickadee raps on.

The sun’s rays slip

along an angle beside us,

and hang like an arm

on our shoulders.

The white of the dogwoods

reign in the peripheral,

like crowns of calling.

Carpets of moss on the edge

are guard rails

of the thin path.

The foliage infilling greens.

The dank aroma of loam reminded

me of my father’s tobacco,

moist in the jar.