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Senses of a Memory
November 9, 2011
The smell of burnt leaves and hickory
Rush through my nostrils and flood my lungs
As the cool air grasps at my face
Walking through the millions of trees
Each one different in their own way
But all bearing the same fruit
The ripe ones glisten in the sun
As the rotten ones fall to the ground
I fill my basket until it’s bursting at the seams
And teeter back down the hill
As the possibilities begin to float through my mind.
© April P., Newark, DE
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