There once was a path from my house into the forest.
With my dog, I would walk an hour before sunset,
steeped in soft golden light or basked
in shades of clouds’ heavy sighs—
or light snowflakes that decorated my cheeks.

Lateef took in every scent, sniffed
at every critter’s scat, peed his own trail alongside me.
It was rare that we did not meet a creature
as curious as we—
a dove or cardinal or sparrow swooping
down above us, a buzzard in tattered cloak
standing watch over new death,
even a snake rustling under autumn leaves
or sunning on boulders halfway to a creek

where we dipped our toes in and drank,
wiped our hands on moss of great oaks
before turning back, bidding adieu
to our named favorite trees—  
Grandmother Cedar and her three saplings,

Uncle Red Bud, deceased but not yet fallen,
and we would step over Sister Sycamore lending her decay
to the mushrooms below, to Brother Olive Tree
and the twisted Pine Papas and Sugar Maple Mamas
at the edge of the woods where gentle breezes,
or strong winds, would carry us home.

Once inside, I would brush off sweat, rain, or a tick,
turn back to take in the sunset through a picture window.
There once was a path from me to home.