Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

A round.

So swift the wind in its cold caress, so warm the trees in their shielding embrace. The rain finds its way down from naked branches above as each footfall is muffled by silt laden mud.

The day is near done as the sun continues to hide, the night lingering in shadows of day. But here is a quiet moment to think of nothing and all things at once.

As thoughts swirl and fade, as a wave on a beach, the brown leaves below glimmer from the cold, dark and wet, as jewels inviting one ever deeper into the woods to reveal a greater treasure beyond.

What great wonders and treasures they hide deep in those woods, surrounded by mists and distance. The wind is but a sound, not forcing itself through in the depths of that lonely place.

What tears it brings to the eye when one notices that they can never get lost in that place, but must by reasons of men and not Gods, turn back to what is known as a home.

What shame it is for the world of men to think of their home as a stagnant pool, decorated to hide their bars.

Yet still the woods call and the leaves will glimmer. And one day I will wander once more.

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