Walking into 40

I have been walking in these woods awhile now,

passed mile marker 39.

The birch trees know my name.

They sway with fondness over the silver streaks

in my hair - their favorite color

The falling leaves of autumn caress my face.

I examine one with childlike curiosity.

She is golden yellow,

tinted with blushes of red on her edges,

still vibrant,

though you can clearly see the lines of life on her visage.

So much beauty in a dying thing.

For a moment, I see my reflection in her golden glow.

A creek runs here, just ahead,

the calmer more peaceful limbs of a raging river behind her.

Her curves are small and soft here.

The depths of her no longer mysterious to herself,

but clear as mountain springs.

Her foundation has changed from sand to rock,

build from pebbles and stones she's collected in her journey,

and her waters brim still with so much life

- minnows, crawdads, and small fish,

the perfect companions for even tempered fountains.

My spirit is kindred with this Autumn wood.

I long to embrace this graceful season of falling

as I walk, tenderly along the path, to mile marker 40.