Skin stippled with drops from the emerald canopy

quietly content with the other,

no need to speak over

the rustling soundtrack of ironwood sway.

Legs that stretch longer than mine are

a couple strides ahead, it’s fitting.

He prefers color photos, maps and plans

to my black and whites and wandering.

Speed up slow down pause

entangle,

familiarity is a force

that fortifies two gardenias

on our eight hundredth walk.

Her ability to ascend a winding

                                             e

                                     s

                            a

                    c

stair

on her hands, laughter laden and filled

with light—

even though she runs from

a man who delights in dispensing punishment.

She referred to him as the husband, her daughters

called him monster,

defiantly started over in nineteen thirty-seven.

She took slivers, stacked shards

into a banister that steadied

her existence.

As pigment gradually left her hair,

She watched as her daughter, and daughter’s daughter

developed a more carefree cadence.

She left her fragile frame in eighty-eight,

yet, if I sat on her bed at my grandmother’s house

as a girl—

her hand would sweep down my hair

filling me with fascination and a substantial urge to

play.

Frigid bulging precipitation paints

silver streaks atop brunette branches

dousing the birch

in a stop bath—

forced to take recess

and allow an untold verity

to grip pigment,

develop then gleam.