By Julie Webb Kelley
At the end of October, every year,
She walks the same path--she has no fear.
She takes the first step, out of the door.
For months, she had waited, but not anymore.
She can't feel the breeze that blows too cold.
She can't see the gray sky is about to unfold.
The creatures on the path wander up and down.
I take a deep breath; she smoothes her long gown.
She lifts her chin, "I'm ready to go."
She takes my hand; I want to start slow.
Her steps, although hurried, are sure what they'll find:
Tonight will bring treats--of every kind.
Someday she'll face a path without my hand to hold,
On that day, I'll pray for her steps to be as bold.
And just like this October path on which we yearly roam,
I pray that every path she walks will lead her safely home.
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