As slow as the breathing
of the ancient giant
long said to sleep beneath
our town’s tallest hill,
snow piled up that week
against the edge
of pine needled forest floor,
then fell back like a cold ocean tide.
We kissed hidden by evergreen dusk.
Strands of your hair caught
on the trunk you leaned against.
Pine tar stuck to our bare hands for days
and we gathered the world’s dust and ash
from everything we touched.
Lee Potts is a poet with work in several journals including Rust + Moth,Ghost City Review, 8 Poems, UCity Review, and Sugar House Review. He is a contributing editor for poetry at Barren Magazine. He lives just outside of Philadelphia with his wife and the last kid still at home. You can find him on Twitter @LeePottsPoet and online at leepotts.net.
Banner Image: “Quelle” by Robert Frede Kenter @frede_kenter