Bench

As I walk aimlessly, inhaling air that is heavy and rich, I come upon thee

Looking like something out of a Robert Frost poem

Hidden, beyond branches, deep with red like a fall afternoon

You glisten, like droplets of water on a blade of grass

Worn, old with history, and welcoming-like a long lost friend.

You sit upon damp earth that was once shared with brown Indians

And a single tree canopies over you

Safe, secretive, and silent

The road less traveled…

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