The sign is red,
a protective measure,
a familiar part of the landscape.
A warning, or perhaps a plea
to be left alone.
It is, you think a tragedy
that the landscape,
the rolling meadow, rife with wildflowers,
and the forest, wild with color
can only be seen from a distance,
that the deeper beauty
is forever hidden from view.
Why, you ask yourself, is the sign there?
Have vandals ripped at the heart of the place,
or is it a fear that has nothing
to do with reality,
a habit perhaps,
of keeping strangers and friends at bay?
You breath in the air.
There is wood smoke and the crisp aroma of fall,
half beauty and half decay.
You think of other such signs ignored,
and step forward,
praying the reward
is worth the risk.
About this poem
For all you readers who post their land, this poem actually has nothing to do with trespassing, and everything to do with moving past relational roadblocks.
But you can be mad at me anyway. I can take it.