the scars on my knees reminding me that we are not immortal,
dragging patellas under water over painted concrete,
weary sun bathers resting in shade.
orange picking in the groves about a half mile from your house,
stretching on tip toes with pulp-stained fingers
cows watching lazily in the summer field.
quiet sunday afternoons for hushed whisperings of conversation,
falling asleep under the table, dreams of moving back home--
it`s not such a bad place.
bare-footed evening lopings through the vineyard,
your hand in mind, letting go to check on the Chasselas or Gamay or Petit Rogue
running back towards the trail, flashlights in hand,
zig-zagging slices of light.