We are surrounded
by cellophane
and cannot really touch
anymore.
We walk the trail crunching
Autumn's first aborted
leaves,
without speaking.
We give way awkwardly
allowing the other the lead.
Our hands bump
and hold loosely out of habit
then release.
The creek bed has dried up
leaving mud caked where
water once flowed.
No wind stirs the air.
We, too, hold our breath,
throats growing dry
as if we've forgotten about
breathing deeply.
We look ahead at the trees
not at each other.
The place between us grows
with a life of its own
and ignores our protests.
It says, "I am of you--
you have breathed me to life,
and now you fight against
your child?"
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
