In the deep past we mislaid ourselves
and feared, adored these places of the lost.
the valleys shaped from many youths,
forests I summoned while wishing you, making twigs
into wands for spells to scatter the beasts,
collecting moss for the beds of passion.
we wandered, asking greater aid,
found nothing yet your hands in my hair
seemed most joyous, miracles even.
why this still seems such marveling imagining us
draped on moss, you touching a leaf to my lip,
another memory of our lost everything.
Nathan Woods, editor/overlord