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Contributors' notes

Lisa Schroder

Mid-november

I thrash through ankle-deep leaves,
delight in lacework of limbs above, and,
lower, a web of briers fine as tulle,
lit by a late afternoon glass-hard sun.
In summer, this path's a mystery.
I follow its twists and turns
trusting that it leads somewhere,
seeing no further than the full-leafed trees.
Later, there are still distractions,
Lady's Thumb, or Fireweed, the turning leaves.
Today, a few forgotten ornaments, still red, cling to branches;
the ridge falls away and reveals its contours,
where it widens, how it follows
from the ridge behind, and to the right;
why it dips, to join one rise with another. Bare trunks stand in its gulleys and on slopes
rigid as consequences. I look back,
and see high ground I might have followed,
but cannot tell where I would have gone.
There is only one path now -- one ridgeline straight ahead,
and the path disappears over its edge.