The cries of geese have faded.
Beneath the trees leaves blow,
rustling, hiding the passing deer.
It begins to snow.
The path not taken, soon enough,
disappears in white.
Sparkling stars reflecting back,
will guide me through the night.
The seasons change in all due time,
and winter winds will howl;
First crystals this year softly fall,
to the hooting of an owl.
The moon, bright, this path is lit,
so falling in a trance,
I find the silence of my quest,
if only just by chance.
Phil Specht 11-10-21