by Elizabeth Southwood
Like shade from white lace parasols,
below the overhanging trees
sunlight and shadow dance a reel.
Wind sways the leaf-green canopy.
The path we jogged on long ago
is still the one we stroll along,
while those new neighbors we don’t know
lope right on past us, being young.
When I’m at home and I recall
the fragrant bay and twisting oak,
I feel the aura mystical
that’s present in the woods we walk.