Surrounded by leaning cedar trees
We drive slowly along narrow roads
Edged in with drifts of rusty pine needles
Hoping each curve will be the last.
We break back into the light and sigh
Only to have the only road forward
Narrow and darken again
Like the mouth of some ancient snake.
Like mendicant monks we keep moving.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: forest,isolation,mountains