back in early spring,
the brick walls of our caverned
church still stinging at my fingertips,
we used to wake early and slip 
quick into breezy shirts and run 
outside,

faces drenched in near-white
morning sun as we took to 
the waxy woods.

i blinked long and watched, 
eyes closed, 
the tiny veins that lined my 
hard shut lids as they
trafficked pulsing red 
in frenzied bursts. 

fingering a chip in one of the
long twigs that carpeted 
our walk, 
i tossed it, arced and whirling,
against the slow stream that 
cut our yard from the 
thick green wall of leaves 
that boiled and hissed with 
rodents and birds.