Ode To Trails

I. We walk a fool's trail under bowing leaves, With the hands of a seamstress weaving our world together. As all our plans and schemes tremor through an air that breathes. We carry nothing through a lush green splendor. II. Clouds with grim figures carved rest heavy above the lake. Inside the toast is burnt as our tooth aches outside a certain flow. We rush forward and ignore the movement of light and sound, snail and snake. Our Big News Parade trumpets our needs all loose and slow. III. Some have sung about the trail's end. Some have sung about the snail's Zen. Some will never sing for the light is too bright. As I now travel in the wake of all this delight.