Your long walks
through the long summer evenings
are growing longer every day
it seems. You're walking
into the roots and the moss
and the leaves, and if I squint
I could almost believe you'd
gone entirely there, into
the world at the edge of all things,
your hair trailing fiery yellow
behind you, the air of before
still shimmering in the trail you
left sprinkled with silk and spice.
And the river nearby,
that winds its way though the oaky
forest, whose pulse times
all the living in its streaming
wake –it gently flows toward
the setting sun, arms outstretched,
brow bent, as if to say hello
to the ocean it rushes to greet.
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