At the Path's Edge

"Be careful,"
barely a whisper.
You moved down the path,
out of sight,
never out of mind.

As the words spilled forth,
I wished them back.
I keep you so close—
my heart beats,
lub-dub,
a sudden, quiet worry.

Last night, lying there,
our goodbye still playing in my ear,
summer refused to fall away.
Then the thought dawned:
a world without you,
come winter.

Unfathomable.

I must stop that thought,
grafting my heart to yours.
We cannot be torn from each other—
Not now.
Not this soon.
Not ever. 

And forever will never be long enough.

I wish I had not led my heart
in worry's direction.
It weakens our resolve.
It makes us less safe.

But I console myself.
You will guard yourself in the forest.
You will save yourself for us.

I wave away the anxiety,
lying alone in bed.
Moonlight streams in.
My arm, my hand—
weaving shadows on the wall,
trying to reach you. 

Wishing for skin to skin.
Struggling for that connection.
To have and to hold you again,
at summer's end.

The Woodcutter's Echo 

The ax bites deep into the ash timber,
a sharp crack echoing through the canopy,
but the only sound in my head
is your voice at the path’s edge.

"Be careful," you said.
I carry those words like an amulet,
tucked beneath my polypro,
warmed against my chest.

The forest is a place of sudden endings—
falling limbs, shifting earth, sharp steel—
but the only danger that terrifies me
is the winter you spoke of.

A world without you.

Unfathomable.

Every strike of my blade
is a vow to return.
I fell the ash one tree at a time,
but I am building our fortress,
shaping the logs that will keep out the frost.

We are joined like heartwood, you and I.
The deepest root cannot be torn
from the soil as fiercely as my heart
is anchored to yours.

The canopy blocks the sun,
leaving me in a twilight of leaves.
I watch shadows stretch across the moss.
I know that same light
will find your window tonight.

When the dusk settles
and the tools are laid down,
my calloused hands ache,
not from the weight of the iron,
but from the empty space between my fingers.

The summer is burning down to embers.
I am walking back through the brush,
only your voice in the darkness.

My love, hold our place.
I am coming home to us.

"I am not a gentle shepherd
like the ones in fairy tales,
but a good woodsman who shares with you
earth, wind, and moutain thorns."
— Pablo Neruda - The Captain's Verses