“Isn’t it pretty?” I wanted to say — that and all the rest, like,
Do you cut your apple first or sink your teeth straight into its core?
And why won’t you look me in the eyes for too long?
Is there something there you’re afraid you might see?
What was the bravest moment of your life and why was it worthy of facing your fears?
And, speaking of, what are your fears?
I know you said spiders, but how about the weight of your huge heart?
Do you ever worry you might crack beneath its yoke?
Would you let me shoulder the other side when it becomes too heavy?
There are so many queries but here you are, all salted stone and brine and maybe a little alpine lakeside
The sap of conifers clinging to the mists, which cling to the rainclouds, which maybe once fed these wildflowers I walk through
The leather you don’t wear and the tobacco you don’t chew, but may have a lifetime or two ago
The one I somehow know and don’t and need to know all of
So, can I ask you something?