Reflection

The trail is discreet—only a trained eye can find it 

Beneath the fall foliage. 

Aspen trees stand tall 

Like runway models swaying in the cold breeze, 

Their limbs wind chimes. 

There is a well of poetry here 

Just below the surface. 

I considered tapping it, 

To drink from the source, 

But I’m afraid of what I’ll find. 

As a child I spent time in deeper canals 

Sorting through the muck. 

The reflection brought me clarity 

And a few good songs. 

But there’s softness there in the sodden ground, 

So easily bruised. 

Lately I’ve preferred the brighter footpath, 

Found comfort in the confetti of the trees.