We drive.
The top is down.
Your gear is
stowed safely
in the trunk.

I hold the book.
Its pink and yellow
veins bleed across
my ink stained

It is summer.
Because we hate
the cold.  It is the
only concession
we make.

We have one month.
The Midwest, across
the desert to Vegas,
to San Francisco.
South to Galveston.

North to the Centre
of the World.  Missouri,
Kentucky, ending at
Virginia.  Hoping to
find The Tree.

We will find The Tree.

We speak very little.
Lifetimes of words and
distance have left us
silent, with little need
for speech.

With a great unspoken
need for glance, for touch,
for the lightest play of
fingers on skin.  There are
bursts of laughter.

Inexplicable but understood.
And the holy hush of
clasped hands in the Sacred
Spots, walking silently across
Hallowed Ground.

We have waited so long.
For this.  So long.
We are ageless and wise.
We are foolish and unafraid.
We are alive


©sdrogers 14 may 2013



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