Imagine walking through a tree lined path
of which covered end to end
leaves
gently rest
on crumbs, sun-baked sheets
crunched or seamless formed
Dried herbs laces the air, no wind
just a warm conversation started
tingling child to child of those who gather scents
Baskets upon baskets of loafs
tell a tale of bygones, laughter in an altered note
no more than an itch in between the ear
But though it is season for meadows wilt
Whither not soil nor sand stops my trudging upon
the very imagination of that faraway tree lined path
which i had found myself promising to me
a bowl of chicken soup
a hard boiled egg dancing in my palm
a head of dripping butter corn resting on ambered coals
a quiet sundown sareed in shades of purple and hints of pink
a tea
yes, a tea...
then all, shall be alright...
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