pinpoint the moment,
the fulcrum,
where verdant green life
slips into hot summer crackle,
Sun-steeped leaves
aromatic, chamomile-like
parched beneath our feet
all those places where a hose will never reach,
a scent in your nose
reminiscent of a birthday hike
on switchbacks
to stand properly on, and in the shadow of,
“The Grand”,
a surprise, teal, glistening alpine lake.
was that the time he dove from the rock like a young god, an Adonis?
all those trips to Wyoming in August, in June,

begin to merge into one core memory,
like a hunk of young granite forged
and carried down in rock slide
then, carried all the way down to the valley, in my pocket
for him, to give to him, on his birth day.
i ran down that mountain like a gazelle, way ahead of them
it was the fastest and freest i have ever felt in all my life, truly
and, i astounded them, all, — and mostly myself.

then, a long, quiet drive back to
a newly dog-less city house
how did this all happen in one June, one August, or — was it two?
then,
the first time i felt a chill in months,
a different kind of crunch underfoot
the wind rained down
a carpet of leaves all about, in an instant

just as they appeared at birth,
all golden again,
but different, wiser,

a frost sets in.

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