Into Red

and he is redefining what it means
to love. ambling down slowly
while the sun's still out. leaves
bleeding, unhurried to a full, hard
red. an old, reliable hound
howls at the foot of the bridge,
calling: you can pass over.
it's safe. just trust your stride.

told so many times: the forest
is dense—the hills, by God,
they're steep. who knew
that when you walked with me
each trail would seep
and bend, yellow outshining
shadow and ravines crooked
into turns.

joy on its own—
to feel sincerely something
that isn't defined
by something else.
to walk a path less traveled
and recognize its warmth,
like a scent that deeply
stuck with you,
what was the name
of that bottle?

in the attic
of latent memory, smelled it
before I was listening, before
I even knew how to talk.
a smell like grass breathing
into dawn, like sunlight
burns through fog—

a sensation that always
made sense yet always
seemed so you-can't-touch.
yet here we are, a path
pebbles, moss—
the purest air I've breathed.
the leaves bleed into red.
he is redefining what it means
to love and it's made
all the difference.


10/19