MOTIVE

I find myself back here again
where most people seldom go
the kind of place where raccoons den
and muscadine vines soar and grow.

For late August the breeze is fresh
a sneak preview of coming fall.
Sun's scattered by canopy's mesh
whose looming height makes me feel small.

On this rare day knees barely hurt
yet habit makes my stride still shamble
along this trail of leaf and dirt
on this private forest ramble.

Fifty yards then a short rest
on an old stump or fallen log,
then watch a squirrel build its nest
in a poplar tree beside a bog.

Legs now rested I resume
just soaking in all that I see,
inhaling the late summer's bloom
within this place so wild and free.

Soon I reach a hardwood knoll
where wind tossed leave applaud my way
and I lean against a huge oak's boll
which sprouted long before my day.

Up here atop a small steep bluff
I survey a creek and its flood plain
which rains have cleaned of all the duff.
A dove repeats its sad refrain.

I spot a flicker on that other side
and that movement turns into an ear
then graceful antlers tall and wide
worn by a resting velvet deer.

So now I sit instead of lean
at the wide base of the ancient oak
amid this land of fading green
where scents sinuous as smoke.

My thoughts and dreams fly where they will,
different times and different places
from beaver swamps to a lone hill
all among the outer traces.

Three score years of fish and game
or simply trekking remote lands
even after I'd turned lame
through oaks, fields and tall pine stands.

These woods gave peace to troubled mind
and solace when I'd lost a friend.
Perhaps that's how they were designed,
to help me cope until My end.