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Sometimes I think Winter is a masochist,
enjoying watermarking black over true blue skies
stripping green foliage to pallid tans,
thick canopies of green now turned red carpets
crunching beneath boots and layers of coats.

I wonder if the leaves enjoyed the moment,
were they happy turning green, amber, red, brown?
or were they only happy in the everlasting seconds
floating from branch to bunch that I kick around?
I wonder if leaves ever had any regrets or
a deficit in timing.

How do you take it back: the moment, the year,
the fears that held you back,
the mountain you could of cross, but didn’t?
I think of past regrets and future roads watching the leaves fall
making sure the present is a soft note of the leave
instead of a blind cacophony of unhappy aspirations.

It’s so difficult to achieve that walk.