A high rigid forest,
crowned thick with boughs
of brilliant green,
lay broad their hands to heaven
like wheat fields where breezes melt
from blue skies.
A small path below, its surface smooth,
relinquishes its space to those who pass;
their voices and names remain bound in the safety
of mossy blankets.
Long shadows signal day’s end.
Seasons are marked by growth and death,
but the path remains constant.
Roger Singer 