The Path

The path

The Path winds, eternally
grateful for a place to be,
trees to twist around, and
slowly decaying leaves mixed
with browning pine needles that soften
the foot steps of deer

It romps through pine stands and
Climbs a hill dancing through maples,
Swishing with the tall grass in a small field before
Hopping over a bog, stopping to croak with a bull frog

Then all at once, carefully planted
pachysandra edges its sides like emergency lanes
and a sign made of a stick and plain white paper
reads “Trail Ends Here” but nobody told

the path.