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.
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 2:11 AM UTC
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.
with the tenderest touch you brushed the hair away from my face.