Thoughts
Like a root hidden under the fallen leaves, they grab me,
I stumble, fall, then get back up to walk the trail.
Or like poison ivy, insidious, clinging, growing up the oak.
Other times, they float down gently as an autumn leaf
drifting to the ground. Maybe they are a dry leaf
torn by the wind, blowing far from the poplar.
Or perhaps hanging on the beech branch until spring.
But most times, they strike like lightening to the pine
and split me down my trunk leaving a long black scar.
The Magnolia Review
June 15
