Way Back Home
I walk from the lake with an even stride,
my basket with fish, the storm at my side.
The golden leaves dance and whisper below,
sharing the forest the secrets they know.
A fox steps out, with a measuring stare,
her ember eyes glowing, her tail in the air.
The old crow flies near, asking for his due,
his caw in the wind, as the daylight grew few.
I sit on the bench, take a deep, slow breath,
the country’s calm wrapping me, quiet as death.
The sunset spills softly, the branches turn dim,
and peace beats within like a slow forest hymn.
—Lucelar
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