turned gold lamé,
god must have brushed back his hair.
I couldn’t help but smirk at the moon.
We slogged up an unkempt bootlegger
path that sloughed through slug-moss,
like sweatdrops mazing the thickened
eyebrows of an old man. The varicose
roots of blackjack oaks offered footholds
to pilgrim’s progress.
Change crisped the woods, and quickened
her geriatric colors. Gingersnap and burnt
orange held an autumn revival, and danced
in the spirit, like the gifts I have witnessed
arise from young hearts.
A polished creek stone wooed his stream
off a cliff, to a mountain elf’s Ruby
Falls tune, killing her softly—