Louise Mathewson

As I walk along Boulder Creek
in fall,
trees tower
over creek waters
as they wander lazily.

Butterscotch leaves hang ready,
then
tugged by the breath of God,
fall to their earthen bed,
become butter rums
that crunch
under each step.

Amid the dance of colors,
space that appears
empty,
sparkles with fairies and elves
as they flit from limb
to earth and back again.
Magic lives.