The leaves have all but fallen 

And the trail is a carpet of them. 

The hills and roots remain constant... 

Ridges and bumps between yellows 

Reds, and browns 

Where my feet pass cautiously  

Not wanting to be fooled by  

The softness of the ground below. 

 
The air can be dry and crisp 

Or temperate and soggy in the fall 

And it is during this season  

That the trail appears painted,

Textured, warped, dabbed onto  

Curled around, twisted into 

The unforgiving floor of Earth. 

 
But I am affixed to this rug 

And the colors of fall  

Reflect 

What is inside me, at times. 

For I know what it means to fall, 

To feel the wetness of leaves, 

Peeling them off my palms, 

Their earthy scent inhaled. 

 
A volunteer walks the trail. 

I see her occasionally 

With nametag dangling  

From a shirt pocket. 

She says people sometimes get lost. 

I act surprised, though I understand. 

 
Passion can hit us hard 

On the side of our emotions 

And sometimes all you can do 

Is check for bruises... 

And keep those feet moving... 

Though the ground is covered in leaves.