by Honor Moore
Brink of September. Mountains rise as I drive.
I enter where they are highest, where clear springs
wash trunks of spruce, where white everlastings
splash dusk-dark meadows, where north means wild.
Lake ringed with mountains. I shout, hear it back,
back. I do not imagine in days I will
touch your face, trace with my fingers what it has
lived without me. I shampoo, dive to rinse. read more »