What hand plants the birch-lined road to everywhere,

Its hoof-dented dirt beckoning me to another time?

What eye sees the harvest and noontime sun,
That now leaves the fields in fallowed rest?

Rising above the dark, still earth,
The white crusted birch cares not of this.

It stretches far above the toiler’s reach
And far beyond the finite road that leads my feet.

It’s in the wind at the top of the trees,
Where the whispered answers spread the gentle leaves,