The sun floats–

not setting, not rising–

until our next reunion

River has learned

a new song during

our time apart.

I sit close to her,

listening with more

than my ears

to everything else

I have missed.

April wears

lilac perfume,

intoxicating everything

as he drives across Wyoming

and I drive home from work,

he tells me about being able to see

storm clouds fifty miles away.

His voice crescendos as he describes

rain sheeting down, sky turning

grey then white then purple.

Yes, I say, yes, and I wish

we could have this

conversation for hours

because he sounds more alive

than he has

in a very long time.

Monday morning shower

to wash away the weekend,

prepare for return to civilization.

 

Water rushes over dirt-stained knees,

coloring white bathtub brown,

muddy memory of crawling through jungles.

 

Shampoo scrubs out twigs, leaves,

sticky remnants of swinging through trees.

 

Facial cleanser exfoliates away two oily days,

slippery shadow of leaping through forests.

 

Fingernails rid each other of grimy substance,

one by one, deleting evidence,

gritty proof of hanging from cliffs.

 

Razor trims stubbly growth,

prickly artifact of primitive communion.

 

Steam clears filthy pores,

stubborn memorabilia from earth’s damp bed.

 

Soap foams across glowing limbs,

fading sun’s colorful embrace,

a hangover from drinking too much sky.

 

Towel wipes away wet drops,

leaving me dry, squeaky clean,

a restless, reluctant participant

in this long, tame week.

Winter keeps glancing at the door

then looking back

at lovely spring,

finding excuses to stay

just a little longer.

Easy to loathe the wind

until you notice

grass dancing, seeds soaring

Underneath a cloudless, windless sky

afternoon sun cloaks me in heat,

birds chatter, insects hum,

seedlings emerge, flowers explode into color.

Seems silly to contemplate

the last frost still to come.

 

Surely the earth feels this too,

cherishes the warming and swelling of her skin,

the life beginning to venture forth,

emboldened by the seduction of a sunlit, blue suitor,

but cautious that winter may not have left the premises.

 

Nature possesses the wisdom, the patience I may never achieve

as she acknowledges the gentle memory of so many seasons past,

enjoying this day for what it is, but not leaping to conclusions,

knowing the greater order of this world in a way I never will.

 

I try to be the pupil who will make her proud,

not taking any part of today for granted.

Nine women displaying

flexibility,

grace,

strength

with each pose.

 

Nine women exchanging

energy,

truth,

power

with each breath.

 

Nine women releasing

tension,

insecurity,

fear

with each drop of sweat.

 

Nine women embracing

freedom,

intuition,

life

with each moment.

After sitting inside

me all weekend,

watching me whack

weeds, chop

limbs, trim

branches, my words

peek out

then duck back in

before they too

are lopped

in this frenzy.