The trees are our backdrop; the canvas is painted with deep greens, soft reds, and vibrant orange.

We walk under the draped blue September sky.

You are wearing the old black vans that you claim you've had since you were 11 years old. They have a small hole near the toe.

I am wearing the mint, coffee-stained high-top converse.

We walk side by side, close, but barely touching. Our fingers teasing one another with small touches.

The wind pushes us forward, deeper into the tree's belly.

We explore. Explore caves, rocks, waterfalls, trails, treetops.

You tell me that trees are like poetry to you. You grab a small yellow flower. You rip off a piece from the bottom, scrambled it a bit in your hands then slowly turn me away from you. As you brush my curled hair closer to you, you tuck the little burst of yellow in my hair.

"Perfect."

Those trees were poetry to you. & even when you are now thousands of miles away, they are your poem to me.