I want to cross the mountains next Tuesday.
I’m glad you want to start the trek today.
It’s getting late in the year, the snows may come soon.
I think May might be a bit late, you are right.
(The snows will be melting then, and the passage will be muddy.)
This morning, I’m waiting on the verandah, for her, and for the rain to break.
I started driving yesterday, the meanderings of the pioneers.
He once held my hand, all night long.
She smiles down at her hand tracing the map.
(She dreams of it still.)
She sleeps through everything important.
He taps his foot, catches himself, and tips his chair back against the gray wood slats.
The mountains can’t wait.
I think the mountain will always be there.
I said I wanted to see the Pacific on the other side.
He told me it was the dry brown valleys he longed for.
When did I say valleys? I never said valleys.
You said valleys and today.
You said California, and the sea, and someday, someday.
Her heart knows valleys, and snow, and never, never.
~ Kay Winter