Perhaps I’d never find it,
The hill we used to walk
Where on the peak
A little bespoke cross
Stood unsure in the dust,
As if submitting to the
Wind that in the afternoon
Ran quiet fingers through
What summer made of grass.
We’d watch it draft a blueprint
Of the seconds we could pass,
And when that little cross
Would waver there, so lost
And in the open, I could
Wonder who had made it,
What brought them there,
Too high up for the trees
To grow too well
And where a voice would
In the thinning air go wasted.
I remember climbing up
Onto your shoulders,
And a gust would sweep
My hair, and so far down
Perhaps a creek was veining
Beautifully uneven
Underneath a skin of green.

Suppose I never looked again,
That place up in some mountain
Range whose surface wasn’t
All that different from the pages
Of those memories I write
And throw away.

#Portland #Oregon

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