Homing

We left the paved city

and house of our usual bed,

two miles down, two states west,

and walked from Road’s End

across three crests and valleys,

through five steep aspen groves—

as if we belong beside this creek

in this meadow. Your face glows

against cold black behind

flames from bristlecone branchsticks

we gathered and broke underfoot.

Shine reflects in your eyes. Flames

shoot up as if they belong

beyond the gibbous moon

and unseen sun. They leap

and fade into smoke. Tomorrow

we’ll return over crests, looking out

to broad desert that surrounds

these cool wet peaks. We’ll go back

to the city, until we turn to smoke.

John Nimmo