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.