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Fall Hiking Boots
by Kay Weeks

One knee drops down on brown wool bedroom rug,
I'm crossing laces on my leather boots,
When suddenly—Oh My!—the final tug,
That feeling safe and sure as earth to roots.

But jittery winds play tricks on present peace,
And sun seems fickle in his daily course.
I wake to nothing sounds, extended shrieks,
Imagine death atop some surly horse.

Surely dreams, unplotted, come and go
As quickly as I tie those bulky shoes!
But murky clouds disrupt that quiet flow,
Bring forth a face that looks a lot like yours.

Fall serves up its bronzed and yellowed leaves
to show us time is moving, while it grieves.
 

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