Through the leaves

my feet leave not a trace

scarce can a sound be heard

save the soft rustle

that marks my passing by.

Here, between the trees

shroud in bright gold,

Time seems to surround

and stop.

Stillness of air

silence of breath

running of water

always flowing, changing moving

dance among the rocks

never, never

still.

Perhaps this is Time

this small clear cold rill.

Different every moment

noticed and in the same instant

gone.

Perhaps the leaves are Time

moments passed and present

and those waiting to fall-

all eternity waiting

for me to walk by.

Perhaps Time is in my walking

steady pace, regular motion.

Passing over and by

all that I come across,

leaving it untouched

yet added to

simply by my step.

Perhaps the path itself is Time

for always running before and behind

bending turning out of sight

through trees, hills

across streams

drawing ever onward

no two moments the same.

Stillness in the moment

passing as a falling leaf

I wonder at the nature of Time.

Questioning through the trees

for answers to intangible searchings-

the rustling of the leaves

reminds me of my step

reverie broken, lost

I turn toward home.