riverside

Weeds tickle your upturned thighs

as you crouch, back exposed to the dusty sun,

head bent toward the rocks resting round between your shoes.

Tired muscles quiver like willow leaves,

breathing slows to the sounds of birds.

Focused entirely

on drops of moisture curlicuing down-

you become that tiny vital crevice

in so large a forest

waiting to let go.

Paths

I spent the summer following your elbows down mountains;

at night above the hills, the stars were cold and slick as river rocks.

The sun was a walking stick, the moon a nectarine.

Your arms grew tan, leading through pines, lupines,

across upturned beaver-dented logs.

There were flowers between our fingers and our worn-out toes.

The coughing wind dragged me east, I went.

Close the book! Today is here!

My arms have grown tan now, too.

Yellowstone

A frozen map of flowers,
waterfalls,
hat-brims soaked with sweat.

Lost Lake, Blacktail, Cascade Creek,
footsore in the tracks of bears.
Shoes: waterproof!
They climbed mountains

improbable! Their love
the snow in June, seeming
never to melt.

They came looking for the yellow stone,
all they found was gold.