# 3

Walking down a trodden trail,
Worn from thinking thoughts for brief views.
There is another.
She reveals herself by a gap trees offer.

Down her there is a field of wildflowers,
Fire red and snow white,
Balanced by gentle yellow.

Resting in flowers we lose each other in colors.
Dirt on our backs and in our clothes,
Hands held, a bridge for gratitude and ants.
Sharing space with bees, butterflies, grasshoppers,
Trees reveling uniquely in wind,
The same allowing a hawk to play above.

In unfolding intimacy where all action ever is.
What every great word or song points at,
Ascription itself.
Slipping on dance and tears and laughter.

Fireflies guide us to a trodden trail.
Sore feet and itchy legs,
Swallowed by wonder and nightfall.

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