Poem #287 of 365

With Breanna in the Hills,
we serenade our pores,
puffing and trudging
in strenuous effort
and breath
until our gait relaxes
to a smooth
momentum along the pathway.

Soon, the sweat comes.

She is taller than the
grass, but shorter
than the sky, but
I marvel anyway,
watching
her equalize with nature
in five minutes flat.

The concrete glaze
on her face dims
as the dirt path
kicks up crickets
mariposas and
grasses all around,
and I drop back
a bit so she can
acquaint on her own.

She allows a longing,
which is evidenced
by the sway in
her steps, a city
girl is loosened
on the praire
and finds pleasure
in this place.

I look up at her
face, because
she has grown
taller still, and
she pushes
forward, as if
finding home,
and I lift my
eyes up and
away, my
mouth closed
and small,
so she can
claim this
as her own
found joy,
and so my
words
will not
crowd out
the memory
she will make
of this meander
for herself
on her own.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez