I walk a path adorned by fallen leaves It must be autumn now, the air is crisp A treasure trove of colors, not for thieves Although I steal their colors like a wisp
A wisp of little metaphors, all mine Oh look, the final sigh of maple’s breath The trees prepare to sleep; the trees are fIne The forest path is not the way through death
I walk this living path to comprehend That life is full of seasons to enjoy These vibrant colors do not mark an end They simply show the art the trees employ
The pathway bearing leaves, a living thing Reminds me they’ll be back again in Spring.
I’m not just some “damn yankee” in my mind I’ve foraged all across this fruitful land I find great joy in everything I find Yes, even if it’s not what I had planned
I’ve foraged oysters from the Puget Sound I forage nuts New England loves to share In Utah it was Camas that I found In Idaho there’s rose hips everywhere
But midwest morels always call me back To Michigan, a place I’ve also lived The U.P. doesn’t seem to have a lack My foraging expresses life un-sieved
For foraging, America’s the best Come forage now with me from East to West.
The carousel is old, but still it turns Will it succumb to time eventually The gears will rust and rotten wood still burns I try my best to set the horses free
The carousel played music made of joy But now it skips through songs like broken glass A ghostly little girl and ghostly boy At times appear when living children pass
A spooky shortcut to a different time It marks another place where fear is found As if the joy it knew was just some crime And still it’s old, and still it turns around
The carousel is old and we are too The ghosts of kids we see are me and you.
