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.
Labor Day. I gather tomatoes, twist ripe
zucchini from ridged vines, pluck lettuce, crush
basil for your return. I hike home through birch
carrying new caught trout. At the slide I strip.
Sun heats bright moss. Brook foams fast through cleft
concrete. I sit, let it rush me wet down smooth
rock to a pool clean of twigs. Cold water whirls
to my skin, quick as the breath of fresh passion.