In the Wilderness
In the wilderness, loneliness is overcome by the guide runners
of our connections to family and friends. A good sense
of direction can replace city signs. This morning, everything
is listening to the whispers of willows. The weather is calm,
the air tastes like sea salt, and my skin runs with the oil
of myrtle leaves. All paths are thinking about summer grass.
Gray, dusty gravel roads and iron-infused stones in creeks cross
winding canyon floral greens to home. Open doors have music
inside meandering around corners, collections, and crosses.
Rhododendron dreams and huckleberry hopes unhook from holes,
rocks behind mosses, and new bark over old winter storm scars.
Full pitchers of iced tea and half-drunken bottles of hard cider
cast late afternoon, amber streams of light through the hinges
of our family reunion and potluck memories. Fall out
of an inner tube on an incoming tide, knock over a split-rail fence
in a game of catch, and carry all the grass and sand—wet,
bare feet can hold—along the distance from just right of the old
apple tree and slightly beyond the year’s suffering and loss.