Poetry

Once more, the quest

The trees are thinning now.

You grab my hand as I make

to sweep a branch from our way,

breath held in, tight, coiled.

Easy, you say. Easy.

I want to be rash! I want to be bold!

I know you’re right.

We have to wait, wait

until the sun dies and the ground

weeps at its parting,

until the moon sharpens the tip of the pennants

snapping to in the breeze.

Then, only then, can we move.

If only time didn’t halt at your closeness.