red roots

Ominous though were the storms clouds
it did not dampen our mood, certain we were
of the mission before us. Neither could
the red sirens and wrong lane take away
the brightness of your laugh, punctuated by

“It might not rain,” you say.

Driving through towns that did their best
to charm us. Looking at discarded relics
chairs on tables, porcelain vases, clear green
bottles, aprons, secretaries, shelves of old
books, vintage postcards with notes in
casual script on the back.

Dear Henry,
Having a lovely time in Canon Beach. Oh, the scenic views! How you would adore them! All the best,
Maddie and Steve

My camera captures only the moments passed,
and even then, not all that well.
You saunter on a small street and look at the
posters on a cafe window. Young boys whose
short lives give a name to a local

“The rain may stop,” you say.

We scheme over the gems of these last minutes,
free for us to do as we wish. We talk about
lovers and friends and discuss which of them
have disappointed us more. We trade stories of
illness and you wince as I relate the bloody
gauze left in an lanced abscess.

“Pass me my bag,” you say, “there are cough
drops in the front.”

There is no one on the trail but us, and the
heavens abate to grant us pause in this
space between trees. Our voices still as the
quiet rustling of our feet on dead, wet leaves
echo the rushing water of the stream on our

“It’s definitely going to rain”, you say.


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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