we came down from the mountain
where the meager pockets of earth
crimp the juniper roots
and nature forms its own bonsai -
where the sun burns off uncertainty
though our lungs burned
we could see far from the outcrops -
could see promises fulfilled
with no interference
from the murk of atmosphere
here where the foothills begin
the pines do not know the agony
of stingy clouds
and the biting wind -
they grow like ships' masts
in a sheltered port
ahead yet another curve
where either bank of the road
comes together in a vanishing point,
where we must enter shadow -
I wonder if you still know the way
