The forest path leads slantwise to the mill
through ancient pines thin-clinging to the hill,
and once a village throve here by the stream
that turned the wheel; thus for a time life teemed
with shouts and laughter, work and loves—now still.
Those lives long gone, what purpose did they fill?
Their words are lost, just tracings of their skills
remain. So life will pass for me, a dream
of forest path slow-winding past the mill
where water, just like time, unhindered spills.
Yet past its spilling, hear a distant trill
of bird, or dog-bark. See the sun’s late gleam
as beauty; worry less on how things seem
or what they mean. Another breath: distill
this forest path far-winding past the mill.
A rondeau for Yeah Write’s May poetry slam.