by Bill Keller
Call me up to the ridge, again.
Though it’s late, and I’m tired, I’ll come,
climbing without my headlamp through
lichens round as lily pads to
the solitary lookout spruce
you hunted from all summer long.
I won’t slide the switch; I’ll wait
to see your shadow swoop across
the stars, or better, hear your voice
both rip the night in half and
bind me to the dark, these woods,
to silent, endless time and you.
If I drift into layered dreams,
I’ll wake to know what I should do:
throw light, race down the mossy run
to soft road dozing under moon,
you chasing, warning, all the way,
till I’m out and gone, never to return.