Mary played her guitar for me

She sat cross-legged on the forest floor,

next to the mossy rock,

the burned out trees.

Mary cried back into the wind.

The music moved like white stones,

falling into liquid autumnal amber,

darker inky umber,

under rocks, fallen trees,

in the late afternoon shadows.

Mary sang of summer,

recapitulated night like laughing bandits,

we stole our way into Culver's pond.

How deliciously cool.

Suddenly the bright spotlight,

running through moonlit woods.

I wore your brother Lee's clothes home as I climbed through

the basement window in the morning.

The strawberry scent, close, near you, yes you.

I dreamed their vines entangling you, entangling me,

as if we were a part of that growing thing.

I hear your song

rolling down this wooded hill.

At times it is distant;

it dissipates into the silence of my own footfall.

Often I come near into overwhelmed.

I stop.

Carefully listen.

I watch you sitting here now

in your carefree, cross-legged posture.

Now like a Rose Picasso,

Now a quiet red tree,

falling lower leafless,darkened, branches.

A walking stick to a man,

leading a boy up this fire path,

to the bridge,