Pale legs sprawl out;
untangling and stretching,
as I absorb the
Montana air.

Isolated, we sit,
under the big
sky.

Silent.

White clouds float
through a sea of
orange.

The same shade of
orange as those sugary
push-up's my father would
shove down my
throat.

Gas station sweets
to make me
me forgive
him.

I shake the feeling
of comparisons—
they never did me
any good.

Instead, I lie down
and allow you
to touch my
tense body.

Softly, you
reach over, muffling
words of beauty and
astonishment.

I do not flinch.

I flash a smile
and focus on
Montana.

The mountains in
West Virginia
rolled; they flowed,
so graciously
together.

There was never a
road that was not
winding.

I've never
seen a rugged
mountain.

Snow-capped and
radiant.

Not until Montana.

Until this moment,
I, too, have
tried to
flow.

Living the same ways,
in which I experienced,
Mother Nature.

Going through the
motions—
with no purpose.

No passion.

The fear of becoming
an abrasive,
overbearing woman
urged me to
flow.

To slide through
life, barely
noticed.

Never climbing
for more,
to discover the
true beauty in
becoming
a bit
rocky.