Path through the woods

Peter Scacco

Late October, and pale light
bathes the dreaming hills steeped in mist.
These are penumbral days that coax



fickle remembrance from us,
days when the mind leafs through itself
like the desiccated pages



of a long-forgotten book.
Come then with me, and let us walk
along this path well-worn from youth,



and let us talk of things past,
of fathers and sons, and of death.
Come then while the day throbs with life,



for it is time we draw truth
from each other’s eyes. It is time
at last to end this stylized dance,



time for us to cleanse ourselves
of clever ambiguities,
peripatetic evasions,



formulaic professions
of fraternity. It is time
to free ourselves from the dim past,

​

to follow the path that leads
beyond these woods, unencumbered,
with eyes once more full of wonder.