Canyon turns slick after heavy rain,
but we agree to meet, hope the mucks hardened.
Our trail looks churned, congealed, a mosaic
sticks-rock-muda rough ribbon in the woods.
We hold hands inside your pocket. A truce,
you say. I didnt want to name it, make us self-
conscious. Signs of recovery. Yes.
I could take issue, but the skys a blue relief,
Farallones visible past the Golden Gate.
Why is tenderness not simple? Like the throb
of warmth in April, the reliable way
spring offers itself. And the glossy body
of the bay below, how sun falls across
water, gold paint spilling over broken glass.
published in Tar River Poetry. Copyright © Beverly