The grove we love browns high in a box,
drying colors between the supersized prints.
Tall greens creep from behind the trees you still see
and their dusky brown still smells sharply.
These years between a fire of want and remembrance!
A spring never dawning falls forward yet again,
leaves us plowing under grey text and black highway,
always west the rear view blue,
our objectives much farther than they appear.
I worry that our return will find us a kodak moment
of change and loss and views unfamiliar.
But mostly I fear your continuing slippery fall,
a frailing husk whitened by too many dim trials.
And I would return to our Point strapping you to my back,
brushing your forehead on the redwood moss,
scooping the spring water to your forgotten lips,
and describing for you the blue rays you no longer see.