The rigid grey hills in-
between his shy pale arms
cheer with conviction.
As he reminds me of
how it feels to be.

Autumn’s fog dances over
the lake so calm it chimes,
as I sip its reflection,
and with it,
his small half-smiles.

I write every night
on the dark cedar floors.
Tumbling in old terry sheets.
Falling in and out of,
waves of grandeur.