Refuge

I used to imagine I was Thoreau Perched on a rock with my notebook or my copy of On the Road Overlooking slopes of endless yellow fallen leaves That descended to the brook side As soon as I could drive I’d head out of the city Into the wild country all oaks and elms and pines and ash I’d usually arrive empty inside After a rain, the smell of wet leaves would fill me up again I didn’t fully grasp it it at the time That I'd make these flights to get some relief from my ever darkening mind Hour after hour after hour watching the tadpoles dance Would be the last true peace I’d know March 22, 2020