We meet were ridge meets sky – 

                        your kin are only here,

                        above a rising contour of warmth, 

                        an unrequested flood

                        shrinking your island tundras,

                        stranding you upward, 

                        a feathered bellwether.

                        You switch from being,

                        to being unseeable – lichen-hill-skin

                        you’ll speckle-wait me away,

                        hunker into arctic whites – 

                        if the high corrie snows hesitate, 

                        else doubtful greys for spring.

                        I forget so much,

                        but remember each of all our meeting places.

                        The map knows their names – 

                        I recall stones and land

                        and the rise and fall,

                        where you were, were not, 

                        and were again.

                        I saw your presence shimmer, 

                        while I gazed breathless – 

                        while you waited,

                        while I was not too much, 

                        while you were still.