Purple Winter Walk

The air is crisp; the refined one
of the last October air;
the fallen leaves are pale brown,
the high hopes of gold ad red abandoned,
like the acceptance of the old beauty;
yet not resigned but fitting in the time.

The old home in the woods seem closer than 
the earlier thought; next, it recedes farther;
as if gone to a place unreachable.

The deep snow, not to be blamed;
but the worn eagerness by the torn age.
Don't come, it whispers,
the voice hollow as the old home;
but my footsteps keep on moving as if
it grew its own spirit;
as the sun's finger points to my heart.

Lest I stop, a rabbit hops ahead;
and a hidden bird sings for the winter day.    

©Byung A. Fallgren