I went hiking today to escape you.
Down the trail I was greeted by a dog with your name.
Made my eyes sting.
A sweet scent caught my nose and reminded me to breathe.
A boy said “It’s the persimmons!”.
I told you I wouldn’t forget you laughing under the persimmon tree.
How that early fruit numbed my mouth and made us into children.
The black cat and I sit several yards from one another, both eye level with October’s Friday the 13th.
He sits like a reflection, a parallel thought that I’ve just been permitted to see.
His eyes are summer’s
last green hiding place; I envy the way the emeralds translate his intention.
He turns his gaze away toward a sound I cannot hear. Is he weary of being a martyr for superstition?
Then, black as hidden light and silent, he ushers summer backwards around a lost corner so that he doesn’t cross my path.
In his place I see the shape of a voice I know but cannot name, a memory that has no memory and will later carry itself around lost corners unnoticed yet missed.
Moon’s book is now full
and wordless, the waxing night
is ready to read.