the poem starts after the walk, while we’re rinsing
the red brown mud from E’s black suede tennis shoes
under the spigot, at the top of the East Ridge trail
and the water was so damned cold, and E, barefoot
and cranky, was pouting in the backseat of the Honda
did we notice the Eucalyptus smells, squish
of mud underfoot, and the Redwood trees?
did we listen to the rivulets streaming down the path
as we stepped across in avoidant measure? and as my son,
bright blue signal in petulant distress lagged behind us
or careened ahead, eight year old self intent on exclusion
did we note the crisp clarity, the shimmer of winter sun?
later, as the tantrum mounted and his mighty boyhood
dead father’s sword in one hand, small pointed knife
acquired on a Quito foray, gripped in his still pryable palm,
did we taste that bitter coffee on our breath? and as I led him
into the steaming shower, washed him with watermelon shampoo
and reassured him that he was safe, that I was not leaving, even
in love outside his known realm, did we feel the heat rising?
when sunset hit the sky out my bedroom window and you kissed
years of tear tracks off of my glowing cheeks, when you invited E
upstairs to see the pink and orange range, that redwood forest walk
with all its delicious mud and power took hold, stationed itself
in my heart and I leaned into you
