Old Friends

Kate knows the botanical names of things

what wild herbs are good for what,

and she almost always has a map.

I’ll watch as she unfolds it

in the evening sun,

her finger tracing contour lines,

moving over lakes and woods,

pointing to where we’ve come from,
where we’re headed.

We’ve walked for more than twenty
years like this, leaping stiles,

skies racing over us

and still, sometimes,

we’ll find ourselves standing

at an unexpected field,
its tall bent grasses

shushing, shushing.

Michaela Ridgway
 
If you have any comments on this poem,  Michaela Ridgway would be pleased to hear from you.