One More Time

I am always moved
by the avalanche of color
in these hills of Vermont
even if it is October.

Treacherous as letting beauty enter the heart of things,
like blossoms murmuring under the soil,
in bulbs and chestnuts buried by squirrels,

I carelessly wander these frosty pastures,
I take the texture of words
into my mouth and let them melt,

and I will mindfully latch the iron gates
so that we might stroll unconcerned
about getting hurt.

I remember tracing your cleanly shaven face
with the tips of my fingers
and the way leaves sound when we walk
close to the earth at the ends of summer.

If the hammock is still hanging between the trees,
I will pretend the snow hasn't already drifted past the windows
and will stretch out under this harvest moon

one more time.