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Posts Tagged ‘hiking’

We speak the way old friends speak—

knowing each other’s stories,

the nuances and undertones.

She always knows just what to ask,

just how to nudge me toward

quiet revelation. I don’t do my best

to hide. In fact, it is easy

to speak of my brokenness.

We pause in a field

where the forest has been felled

in an avalanche—

the slender white trunks are strewn

in a chaotic jumble—

but oh, how clear the view.

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A big green meadow

opened in my heart

filled with dark purple larkspur

and fragrant sage—

and I stepped into it,

wondering how I had ever

stepped out of it—

come, meet me here,

here in the temple

of pulse and blue sky,

where everything

seems possible,

even love forever,

even love right now.

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Bushwhack

 

 

I followed the road as if it were a teacher.

It went up, I went up. It turned, I turned.

It was a long time before I relearned

that the road is not the only way to go.

The first day I walked away from the gravel,

I fell. That was the day I learned

staying upright is not what’s most important.

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—for Rachel

 

 

between the cactus,

we walk, our conversation

daring to step wherever it wants

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wind so strong

the only part of me unwhipped

is my wonder

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After the first half mile

my shoes are soaked through

from post holing through knee deep snow.

There’s still a long way to go,

and the hike is for pleasure, after all,

so I decide it’s not so bad,

the squish of my socks,

the chill seeping in.

It’s just another way to remember

I’m alive, and though it’s slippery

and slushy, the trail,

and though I’m less nimble

than I’d wish to be,

look at that blue, blue sky,

and oh, my long shadow,

see how eagerly it leans to the east.

 

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One Stumble

 

 

walking in the backyard

of the same old heart

this new trail, wondrous

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with every step

losing the need to struggle to say

what can’t be said

 

*

 

carving away

the women I’ve been until the only one left

is the one walking

 

 

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in the sage meadow

I am less myself

and more sage meadow

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Today you told me
about how if you watch
an evening primrose

for twenty minutes in the evening,
you can watch it go
from closed to open.

Too slow to notice
if you don’t take your eyes
off the flower, you said, but

fast enough to be remarkable.
We were walking up, up
above tree line, moving

our bodies through the stiffness
of morning into the day’s
warmth, and I noticed how

as the miles went on
the chattier you got,
too slow to notice from moment

to moment, but by the end
of the day, there was nothing
we couldn’t say.

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