My Footfalls on Leaves

I walk in the forest, quietly, gently,

      trying not to disturb, not to disrupt, accidentally.

But footfalls on leaves are never completely silent; no matter the care.

A walker, a hiker must always, of that beware.

I know the seasons by the sounds of leaves beneath my shoes or boots.

I walk the changes underfoot by taking different routes.

In late fall and early winter, there is the crackle of golds, yellows, and reds.

If not careful, the sound makes birds and squirrels take cover in their beds.

In later winter, frozen leaves with a lace of ice and snow

    make the going slightly slow.

 Winds have piled them in a bunch

     but, they’re not so loud on footfalls late in fall, they simply crunch!

Sometimes, round a bend on a slightly overgrown path: a delight!

A pine forest tucked within the oak and maple trees, I sight.

My footfalls grow faster as I know that smell of pine, so sweet.

Soon those cushions of needles will provide soft landings for my feet.

In the colder seasons, not always so gentle: a pine cone rain,

      results in landings on one’s head, that causes pain.

Though to me it seems that heavy woolen caps,

            on such occasions, offer sure ways to adapt.

I have learned that pine cones under foot can roll.

They offer a slide off balance if one fails to look,

    or grinding sounds when smashed by soles.

In spring and summer last year’s fallen leaves offer comfort for my feet;

    pillow-like bedding on my forest path, I greet.

The softest rain yields puddles and a chance to grant a joy, a wish!

To muddle with those leaves and listen to the way they squish,

     and to wade, just ankle deep, in ponds that leaves have made

     before the warming sun will make them fade.

To look up into the tops of trees, without losing step, is to be elevated into a space,

     beyond oneself where life’s a much slower pace.

 The sight almost lifts me off my feet.

The tree canopy, fifteen yards or so above, offers shade: a treat

     a needed respite, yet allows the sky, here and there,

     to edge through, in blue against the softest green, quite fair.

Mine are not the only footfalls here.

I see the prints of birds and deer.

I recognize the tracks of rabbits, a raccoon, a fox or two.

I hear their movements in the woods, through and through,

I feel as guest in their dear home,

 uninvited but free to roam.

Lost in time, but not time lost, whatever season.

For my footfalls on leaves, I never need a reason.