I’m Found Every Time You Turn Around To Find Me There

You take my arm
through this
dark part
of the country.

We hold each other up
whisper-stepping down
this hill in the late night
morning of our new century.

We’re drunk-laughing
out of fear of what we can’t see
and our false confidence
isn’t enough to shield us.

While the sky is clear,
the ground remains in shadow,
the light of the moon fractured,
obscured by pines, maples, oaks —
their twisted canopies alive
with sharp fanged critters
and croaking complaints.

Finally through the woods,
we stumble upon rolling green
lush grass lit by moonlight so clear
it should have a soundtrack,
and we ought to know
exactly which way to go.

You pick a leaf off my sleeve,
toss it like salt over your shoulder,
hook my elbow in yours,
and look at me as if
I’m supposed to guide us,
though I’m pretty sure
I’m the one who’s lost.

Only, I’m found
every time you
turn around
to find me there,
staggered by the
given again,

the fact of us still a fact,
still true even
in the unravelling light
of these short hours
before sunrise
of a new day.

So together we
keep walking home.

Photo by Carl Nenzen Loven on Unsplash