walk, walk, walk

walk, walk, walk
but do not talk,
for three weeks

from now we read
that tome of a poem
we composed together, penned

on a rolled parchment scroll,

pastel green, as if made
of broad blades—
fibrous and strong, hand scraped
and pounded perfectly flat,

then bleached in the sun;

of reeds plucked,
directly from the bank
of the small shimmering pond;

crystal clear and topaz skinned;

yet surprisingly profound
and of course ice cold;
tucked neatly

within the deep sensuous folds
of the lush but forbidding canyon
not too far from our own
little home.

until then
let us do no more

than occasionally nod;
say hello,
and smile.