Unkempt grass
supports our weight —
bouncing back after our swollen
feet climb further still for the highest point we can reach.

It prickles, so
our arches covet the swaying grass,
long in the early summer,
browned
by the nibbling of
birds.

My toes
can’t grab hold —
the dirt slipping through gaps,
roots pulling loose from the soiled
unsteady ground.

Your hands,
stronger next to my raw skin —
gashed open patterns
patch my arms with
shadows of the
folds in sheets
wrestling with feet.

We aim for
the shade of a fig tree.

We could be
in the shade of a fig tree.

My shoe
tumbles down the dew
dropped mountain,
hitting
the paint-chipped
fence reverberating
our reminder.

_______________________________________