What I remember most is the grass
warm sheaths sweet against teeth,
cheek to soil, squinting through
stems and spikes as I entered secret
settlements – the wet tails of slugs,
a colony of hard things, proof of life
below. You called my name from an
upstairs window, your voice drifting
on a southerly breeze, and I shrunk
myself unseen, tiny tiny tinier still,
a speck dissolving into earth
knowing you would find me.
Who would have guessed that we
would both disappear? Who could
have seen the sorrow and the
freedom that comes from such loss?