Another painting from our show with the poem, " We Walk," written by Scott Aycock
WE
WALK
We are on retreat—
a cabin in the woods.
Leaving behind cell phones, and computers—
we walk.
The path is wide, clearly marked—
no getting lost.
We feel at ease on this unfamiliar path,
whereas, back home, in the city
familiarity seeds boredom,
and yes, sometimes resignation.
Trodden paths turn to ruts,
roots are exposed,
like fingers pointing.
We are lost.
For now, though,
in tandem,
we walk.
me in front
and then pausing
to observe a mushroom,
or catch my breath,
she will take the lead.
Out here, cooperation, not competition,
Rules the day.
I offer a hand crossing a creek,
and stopping to rest,
she offers me water and a smile.
Still we are cautious, but curious.
New trails are like that,
only a hint of what lies ahead.
We walk.
It is mid-September and already,
the sun sits lower in the sky.
Slant light is warm, almost hot,
as the trail steers us into one of the many
grassy clearings.
On this high plane
we walk
among blue stem, cacti, and crimson-crowned
sumac.
The path gives way and dips into deep
shadows.
I stop before wading into
Pine—
Oak—
Juniper.
She steps beside me,
her arm brushes mine.
Standing there, she whispers,
“can you feel it? It’s like leaving summer and walking into
fall.”
True, the heat gives way abruptly,
cool moist air rushes up the descending path.
Stepping under the canopy
there is a hushed silence.
Instinctively, I reach for her hand and
we walk.
