For LP

Through a shamble of trees,
I climb the hill to meet you. Leaf-light
falls into the open weave of pines

strewn on the forest floor where seedlings
sprout and the ground breathes.
Dark spruce trees line the path. Branches,

in the wind’s way, scrape while sparrows shout
and jays speak and a squirrel calls
a warning. Then silence. I hear

ripe berries drop, and you are here—so full
of rocky contour—so full of taste—
but only for a season.

We have eaten before at some other table.
Only the sound of our eagerness,
can be heard. Soon we will depart.

The forest will start up again,
continue its own conversation.