The ground pricked up around our feet as we ran through that year,
Like putty being pinched by careful fingers.
There was a place somewhere in the woods where we would find
Not really knowing exactly how to get there or how to get back,
We would just find it sometimes after wandering, it was impossible
We would go there, and the ground would follow us,
Those large invisible fingers, spiking our steps, making risen memorials
To our footprints.
The water was so sure of itself there the way it fell between the stones,
It clanged like strange church bells, every snapped twig was like
High heels on a tile floor.
There was no cement for miles and a person could take their shoes off
And run their hands through gentle moss,
There is so much cement everywhere else, you can practically hear
Pounding cracks from the other side.