UP TO MEZEY’S
Up past
the first fields
of dead grass
the slow rise of hills
opening green,
shifting winds, crossing animals
risking blank turns
Up past
the closed houses
blinking whites and blues
Up past the flatness
of late summer
we meet—
his short arms
opened into flight
He whispers
and in that moment
grabs my hand and leads
me back
back from the first front of trees
back
into everything growing