three women may walk this road at any time of the day or in darkness,
carrying bowls of fresh-picked raspberries with shining eyes.
on the beach not far from me,
a boy has picked up a flopping, dead fish
now he swings it by the tail, taking ginger steps on the hot sand

he pointed out a heron to me, plucked his banjo patiently
recording deep layers of stratus clouds, the gentle ambling of a turkey flock
i climbed into tree branches to pick the plums
greeted the small quail scurrying at the edge of the road

oh my body, betrayer and sustainer
my hands, that have known work and yet remain soft
this is my summer skin, meeting yours as the rain falls down
rest your jaw on my clavicle
your calloused hands on my smooth back

i have seen the scenes and scenery stretched out like canvas over the pilgrims' west
have squatted like a hobo to drink soup from hand-thrown mug
have returned to a land as overwhelming as any i've yet seen

now i examine tree bark
now i stand tentatively under the waning moon