to your door

a cogent cerulean sky

the arraign of wind
   a smell of pine and cedar
      harangues my face
         and pulls on my heart
traversing past
   the sleepy water
    on the road to open meadows
      of emerald and gold
outlying silos
   set stoic
     amid crimson barns
and
in steady harmonization 
   of constant flow
     through the countryside
there is magnificence
   to be embraced
      in whichever open bearing
even so
stock-still
  my compass points
    to the overgrown
      and thorned path

         to your door

~csr