Friday, November 16, 2007


First Published in PoetSpeak Vol VII, #1 Spring 2003

You splash your feet
in the clear water creek
where the Coho come
to spawn.

The rocks many-colored,
the water cold—after a time
warm grass restores
the feeling in your toes

and we pick blackberries,
gorge ourselves,
our hands and faces
purple smeared.

Then, nestled between
cedar roots, we kiss
for the first time–

our lips and tongues trade stains
until we hardly know each other
from each other.

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