haiku, in a sense

mornings, I plunge from
bright coffee shop, warmed with joe,
hold the door there pal,

through stone gates planted
round with burgundy mums, where
foot-worn paths beyond

beckon: walk into
my deep woods, fragrant with leaf,
lichens, and downed logs,

all slippery brick and
scattered pools of lamp post light,
mosses leading north--

but I must turn South,
plunge into the light and life
of this old building

carrying in on
my shoes, my hair, skin, and heart,
this Autumn morning.