The sparkling tea brown water slicing
between grassy banks flows from
my mountain to the city where you are.
You whose letters drop like autumn leaves
in the spring of my life.
You whose voice vibrates the air between us
when we speak late at night,
when we whisper secrets to each other
that only the ether shares.
You, whose hand, large and rough and
strong, feels like a home, in which
my own finds refuge, warmth, and peace.
Here, I dwell in firelight and rainbows.
There, you toil in smoke and showers of fire
to build a world we may never know.
But when you return, when the stiff leather
of your boots and strong muscles of your legs
carry you back up the broad back
of my mountain—our mountain, then—
you will find refuge, too.
And the clean cold water of the stream will
wash away the years of our parting, leaving
nothing to come between us but the wind.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six