Wind-burned face, knit cap,
flannel shirt, Beckham beard.
He looks like a damn demigod,
smells like jack pine and fresh water,
like snow and soot and sky.
So much sky.
He has heard the secrets that trees tell,
the gossip of salmon, the poetry of the stars.
My notebooks full of dates and progress,
Appomattox and the Rosenbergs,
seem silly in the cool shade of this hero.
I could love him again; I know it.
He pulls a Moleskine from his back pocket, says he’s
published a little here and there, no big names.
Can I read them? I ask, terrified he’ll say yes.