it’s the inside
the ragged leaves
no longer fluttering
along its arms
While out for a walk today I came across my own version of Frost’s “two roads diverg[ing] in a yellow wood.”
While both of these roads eventually circle around to meet the other, it’s true that the view would differ significantly depending on which I took: one bordering the river and the other wandering along the foot of a scruffy bluff. The constant with both at this time of year is the way fall has stripped the leaves and left bare an accumulation of things usually hidden, like this bird’s nest.
Along the way I also encountered a copse of trees with strips of peeled birch bark draped over branches well above my reach.
I’ve been reflecting lately on how the vagaries of life often do a similar job of stripping us of our emotional camouflage and revealing things we may not want to look at ourselves, let alone reveal to others. This poem is an effort to encapsulate some of that