In the wilderness, loneliness is overcome by the guide runners

of our connections to family and friends. A good sense

of affection can replace city signs. This morning, everything

sounds like it is wrapped in willow. The weather is calm,

the air tastes like sea salt, and my skin runs with the oil

of myrtle leaves. All paths are thinking about summer grass.

Grey, dusty gravel roads and iron-infused stones in creeks cross

winding canyon floral greens to home. Open doors have music

inside meandering around all of the listening faces.

Rhodendran dreams and huckleberry hopes unhook

from holes, rocks behind mosses, and new bark

over old winter storm scars. Full pitchers of iced tea

and half-drunken bottles of hard cider in the afternoon sun swing

amber streams of light on the hinges of our family reunion

and potluck memories. Fall out of an inner tube on an incoming tide,

knock over a wood fence in a game of catch, and carry

all the grass—wet, bare feet can hold—along the distance from just right

of the old apple tree and slightly beyond the year’s suffering and loss.