and the days dutifully came
with their scythes, rasping
and scraping away all the stories
I’ve told myself about
who I am and who you are
and who does what to whom,
and now, on the back road
that leads to more back roads,
walking in the morning sun,
I meet you, not the stories
of you, but the real you
with your fear, your light,
walking beside me,
and beside us the rising,
rushing creek, and above us,
the spring delirious birds,
and inside me a growing emptiness—
how I used to be so frightened
of not being full—
but now when you speak
your voice rings in me
like a silver bell
whatever is true—
This moment. This woman.
This road. This you.