Refuge
I used to imagine I was Thoreau
Perched on a rock with my notebook or my copy of On the Road
Overlooking slopes of endless yellow fallen leaves
That descended to the brook side
As soon as I could drive I’d head out of the city
Into the wild country all oaks and elms and pines and ash
I’d usually arrive empty inside
After a rain, the smell of wet leaves would fill me up again
I didn’t fully grasp it it at the time
That I'd make these flights to get some relief from my ever darkening mind
Hour after hour after hour watching the tadpoles dance
Would be the last true peace I’d know
March 22, 2020
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