Walk in the Woods
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I like those golden days, some leaves light up just as you walk by, holding on to the twigs, looking down on their companions that have given up and lie shriveled on the ground.
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Last year I may have been here but landmarks change, no two leaves are alike, seasons are forgetful, mushrooms pop up at unexpected places, entire trees fall victim to the saw;
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only the texture remains the same, the mood, the atmosphere, the autumn sun. Some stones I stumble upon are covered with cryptic language: “Let it be known (herewith?) that – – – five oxen – – – – in splendor – – – – praise oh praise – – – illicit (?) – – -”
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The sun in its perfect roundness, in its holy eternal shape and glistening intensity is mocked by another round thing filled with intruding objects that come from nowhere and go nowhere. I for one refuse to enter.
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And then I encounter a stern warning, a Menetekel, a no-trespass sign of sorts, the end of the walk; it might have to do with a warning about the coming cold, or the common cold; the meaning is as always in the semantics but the semantics is gone.
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