The purple November berries
Were crisp and sour on the vine;
Tiny, interrupted birds startling
At my presence on the trail.

The gurgling riversong ran
Melodious to the low clouds
Coaxing the sage to scent,
The crisp, pungent clean
Just before slumber.

We felt watched
From the hills,
A hushed presence
Marking our passage and waiting

While wisdom seeped from
Ancient trees,
Turning the grass
An unexpected winter-green.

The smell of snow hung patiently
Aside the sage
Waiting for its turn on the pages,
The cushioned leaves
Lulling the impact of our
Athletic shoe intrusion.

Listening to all these stories,
We promised to write them down.

For once,
I wasn’t hungry,
Felt the sudden sting
Of stealing some creature’s supper,
That purple November berry.

11/22/2010

Posted on 11/22/2010
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie