Brink of September. Mountains rise as I drive.
I enter where they are highest, where clear springs
wash trunks of spruce, where white everlastings
splash dusk-dark meadows, where north means wild.
Lake ringed with mountains. I shout, hear it back,
back. I do not imagine in days I will
touch your face, trace with my fingers what it has
lived without me. I shampoo, dive to rinse.
Labor Day. I gather tomatoes, twist ripe
zucchini from ridged vines, pluck lettuce, crush
basil for your return. I hike home through birch
carrying new caught trout. At the slide I strip.
Sun heats bright moss. Brook foams fast through cleft
concrete. I sit, let it rush me wet down smooth
rock to a pool clean of twigs. Cold water whirls
to my skin, quick as the breath of fresh passion.
Excerpted from Honor Moore’s 1988 Memoir, available now from Carnegie Mellon University Press. First Carnegie Mellon University Press Classic Contemporaries Edition, October 2019. Copyright © 2019 by Honor Moore.