Always I find you somehow escape my words-
by Zoe Nyght
no matter how hard I try to catch you with my pen,
slippery devil, you always wriggle free.
So maybe I’ll just paint us,
alone together atop that grassy mountain which was
so perfect for a poem, elaboration would be needless.
We drove there on a sunny afternoon,
so clear that Catalina was solid against the horizon.
It was wonderfully spontaneous, not knowing exactly how to get there
or where it was we were getting to, exactly.
Up and up and up we drove, far into Laguna Hills, and
hey look, here we are.
We walked for a while, silent, listening to the wind and our breath,
smiling at joggers with babies and old men with dogs.
I remember remarking of the stillness in the air, how it didn’t even seem like
we were in the City anymore,
and you said, simply, ‘we aren’t.’
Then, suddenly, there was our view—
sitting there in the air between us,
down below an empty road, high above an endless sky,
far ahead rolling hills, and right beside me, you and I.
I remember you closed your eyes as we stood there, taking it all in I suppose.
I remember feeling like we would fall into eternity if we didn’t
watch our step
and there, with the grasses waving at our feet,
with the undulating greens and browns before us, with the
the wind in our pockets and the world at our fingertips,
slanted sideways into each other,
I wouldn’t have cared if we did.
We sat there, you and I, on a desolate rock overlooking one dirt road,
the Robert Frost tree in view. I told you, it was like a poem, so perfect
elaboration would be needless.
Then you sang to me and
your melodies caught me off guard, sent my heart rolling away
without direction. There it went, across those folded green hills,
your lungful notes in tow. You knew it would get me,
and I knew, and there we were, together.
We walked back, slowly,
you lugging your guitar, me lugging my absent words
(I picked up my heart on the way) .
You serenaded the goats, we laughed at smart-ass remarks
and our fingertips found each other.
We got in your car, drove back home, and that’s the beginning of the story
(again) . I won’t say any more because there isn’t any more to be said
and it doesn’t even matter that you refuse to be written, for
I know, and you know, that we will always remember
being at the edge of the world under the Robert Frost tree.