You are out in the field among the rolling pumpkins, ripe, bright orange, playing hide and seek under and among broad scratchy leaves, tethered by roping vines.
You are reaching over the fence, sharing your crunchy banana chips with honey colored horses and your granola bar with goats wearing powdered cocoa coats, comparing your beard to their beards in your snapshots, your smiling eyes as blue as the clear sky, with no chance of rain.
You are sitting among the fallen rocks under cliff edges brimming with forest, ledges winding and sliding, letting go of whole trees that rest against shifting, trickling earth, in front of shallow caves; you sketch the waterlines and horizon as surfers wade into the embrace of waves, explaining the long board, the balance, the buoyancy and the timing to me and I attempt to picture loving anything or anyone more than I do right now, here with you, as if I could dare myself to snap out of it, as if I’d never risked falling.
I am all about the falling. Could care less about landing, but you ground me sometimes and that’s when Tide pools and starfish, sea urchins, anemones, green glowing moss spill across your hand torn paper, your wooden pencils lining the tin box perched on your lap.
Your hands break apart sandstone into flat, fat slices, thick as challah, sweetness with substance, the sound of your voice expounding, and subduction sounds like seduction in my ears. And I love you.