Remember photographing the alphabet
trees: cold cedar, sweet maple, red ash.
Crossing the slick elm-bridge to get
a focused view of J all I saw was slush
birling in the creek. You hailed me over
like a bandit with his loot, me on all fours,
bones rattling on the petrified log, shivers
of a stone. But when your voice spun gyres
of heat, saying picture yourself above the tree,
I untangled my feet, arms stretched out
like a T walking. I saw your photography
of us, years later: me, standing with no quit
in my eyes, inside the curve of J and you,
hands on my shoulders, still the frame for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment