To this day I hide from my parents
the fact that I visit you —
a small trail,
nestled at the end of a street which meets
the view of evergreen mountains and pale waters
tinted by an afternoon glow.

They fear I'll be attacked
when I'm with you —
bears rushing up woody slopes
to tear my limbs apart
or perhaps a stranger shoving me onto sunlit moss,
his hand over my mouth
whilst chickadees sing sweetly
and the ferns sway
and the cedars stand stoically.

But I know you well —
you, with Christmas ornaments still hanging on a pine in March,
with the gift of wild blackberries in July,
with the tease of a water view in October
and the uncovering in December
as you strip off, slowly,
slowly,
the leaves on your deciduous trees.