WATERSHED

WATERSHED

We were freshmen

in this Nebraska town

come in from a cold rain

to gather cross-legged and shoulder to shoulder

in Middlebrook parlor, to sing-- a late

evening devotional.

Voices excited the space

like the hollow of an instrument

a wet mingling of breath

and my eyes caught yours. You smiled.

One year passed and spring suddenly loosened

the creek's voice.

The sun still died early enough to ignite

the tips of new buds

to teach the naked trees to flare,

skeletons fanning embers as we

walked after dinner. Black leaves

made our bed as a beaver slapped

water warning us to keep back.

Our first summer in the mountains

smelled of late afternoon rain

softening the dirt path that left our porch.

We took the tops of large boulders in two leaps

your hand wet in mine, our baby daughter

on my back

and giggling at this rough dance.

Thunder split the trunks above

chasing us to a poor cover of scrub oak

where I watched your shirt

darken against your breasts.

I tasted rain from your cheek.

Going back, we stole green apples from a branch: juice like

sweet pins in my jaw.

Now you are asleep in our tall house

your face pressing the pillow you've kept since first

grade.

It is still too cold to be spring

but too warm not to think of the

sound of water.

Now I will peel back my corner of our quilt

to slide under

both of us in our single place.

My hand is on your side

as you breathe slowly

a careless raft tugging me into open

water.