weak pages, years of what i don't recall,
and photos of times i can't remember-- a sign
of ailing brain, or ailing times? the line
of life, all bumps and curves, a hill so tall
it can't be climbed, alone. and you, helpmate,
will run when paths get steep; you close when doors
swing wide. i climb the stairs, i own these floors
and all their tiles, the urge that i can't sate.
the lake was gold, the sky was blue and i
was caught between you and the urge to fly.
the sand was dark, the water cold and you
had hands in earth, in me, in all things true.
the sun burned holes into our eyes, but all
i saw was us, the hill, and dreams grown tall.