tickle the décolletage.
I walk on the shaded side of the ravine, trending west,
Away from the river and the giants that dwell there.
Occasionally, one graces the trail and I can almost hear his voice,
Deep like the words of rocks
but music and light like the sky.
After hours of tunes and talks,
(monkeymindchatter)
these only sounds are the crinkling creek
and the gentle kiss of enormous maple leaves as they float down
to the earth, end of summer.
Plus my breathing, the in and out,
and light steps sans shoes.
:::
I climb away from the creek.
The trail winds up and the drainage splits.
I am level with the limbs of trees strung with old man's beard,
and the air is dry and hot.
I taste things on the trail:
mouthing an acorn, a piece of madrone bark,
the giant yellow leaf I carry for hours.
:::
I am amazed, over and over again
at how my heart unfolds in this life,
blossoming slowly,
petal by petal with lessons of love:
is it always possible
to give
and
to receive
more tenderness.
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