Let me locate my North star.
Let me lick my finger and find the wind.
I started to wonder, having stumbled
behind more than once, if you kept intending
to lose me or if we just have different paces; wondered
if altitude was the hand holding me back, if
I should have worked harder.
But there never seemed to be enough
air for both of our voices and I realized
that even if I ran myself breathless
up one side of this mountain
and down the other—I still wouldn’t reach you.
I was surprised how unfamiliar I’d become to myself,
I’m down at the river, where the frigid water shifts
and begins to pick up speed. I haven’t been
so much lost, as not paying attention; not so much
alone, as leaving myself behind.
Let me follow the moon until I make it
back home. Let me feel my way
by the lichen on trees.
© BARB REYNOLDS
Published in West Trade Review, June 2019
This poem may not be reproduced without the author's permission.