This poem is not of the salon,
it is found across the icy stream.
Throw your hands around my neck
and let me carry you across.
This poem grows in the low heather
and huckleberries along the path
to the tarn above the rocky slope.
Take my hand and I’ll lead you there.
This poem lies down naked
beneath the stars. You feel it
like the first sharp breath
when my lips touch your skin.
This poem is the first falling star
on a summer night, not mine
to give or yours to take, but
ours to witness together.