Curses coming, the wind
and rain unbury dead leaves.
Ambush. Foolish to hike
the Cascade ridge just to hike the ridge
glassy sheen on stones.
Damp bangs stick to our forehead
like leeches that suck out senses.
This litany of footsteps
is a dialogue with the day’s
charisma and how the cold
works on the body.
How can a grin not work
like a sudden shot of gin
or a mug of hot-buttered rum?
How can the bark of a hemlock
not be a narcotic when we
rest against it on a downed log
hear the canticle of breaths
within us wait for the wind
to drain through an hourglass?
This rainstorm is no fake flower
or flimsy stem of gray
but a bouquet of silver blooms
that day has gifted us.
Think of romance. A first date.
A first dance. Hear the rain
hum that song.
John Davis is the author of Gigs, Guard the Dead and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and Terrain.org. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.