she pressed her fingers to my lips...

 ‘Forest Cemetery’ by Ivan Shishkin 1893

an offer around Dawn

we would spend

the early morning

collecting stones

and little bits of shiny paper

strewn along each side

of the well worn path

trees, here were not nearly ancient

by any means, though some

were a few hundred years old

thick with grape vine bramble

and a heavy sway to their branches

they did feel old enough

so that when you were near them

you felt like crows before the caw

tucking things, finding yourself

where you wanted to be for the day

the Sun had just started

to climb the eastern horizon

over roof and tongue stretches

of asphalt, numbered signs

poked the ground alongside them

cars ignored us as we ambled

past old markers of a cemetery

in the distance

it was as if these stones

from the 1700’s

were part of some spiritual constant

some cycle erosion

beneath wide pine boughs

in the middle of the peats,

mosses, lichens

and heavy pet of grasses

today I decided how full

my pockets could get

would they be wet

like my shoes

weighing the offer

with each step

as my thoughts did

would it be okay

would I find myself here

without need of masks

or wit or what the world

spit out at me

could I

would I dare

let someone in

she had said to me

let’s walk in the morning

and fuck our way to noon

I’ll make the tea

you just make me happy

and somewhere in between

satisfaction will find both of us

and once we started walking

I knew the Dawn was not going back

to sleep and neither was I

EJR ©