Lynn curls in the wisps of fog.
She is steam. She is ghost.
She makes snow angels in our front yard.
Lynn is always one step ahead of me
through the pines, through the alders,
across the rocky flanks of the mountain.
Do not worry about my wanderings.
Earthly geography is a simple thing.
I cannot become more lost than I am.
I seek Lynn in the light
as I top every rise,
as I round every curve.
This holding on pulls me
over the slightest mountain trails
in among the bears.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney