A chickadee in minor thirds
talks me into childhood,
the time we picked blueberries
on a trail along the lake.
Hiking behind you like history
eclipsing my last footstep
in fresh dirt, your back
stooping to match steep terrain.
Heavy as Emeraude
my mother wore,
bouquet of the high country.
We forget the valley.
You’re leading me to summit –
heather hides all pain,
downhill we brush violet-pinks
insisting we tread lightly on them.