As I move through this evening,
I am reminded of you.
During the winter which beat
my skin raw, we tried to be someone
older. We attempted to speak like birds,
all sound in the early morning glow,
the pink dew and raw strawberries.
You became all hands,
you like a converging horizon, and
I was forced to dream of you—
I watched as we changed, and found
we had spoken like horses, all mane and eyes,
treading softly on what would be
paling sunlight.