This is where
our idle walking
ends

the crunch of
winter leaves
beneath our boots

stops

we reach a kissing
gate that tells us
we're in

memory

when our thoughts
met with kindness

soft whispers
in the soil

hearts planted
so deeply that
even the storms
do not shake them

one of our hands
reaching for the
other, to touch,
to bruise

scratching, crawling
out from the Earth
like a dead
thing

utterly mad
but strangely
beautiful