She is fifteen,
and I cannot hold this quiet
inside me
no matter how much
we need it.
I cannot even hold it
until the switchbacks end
and we emerge after
hiking 14 miles.
We sit on a log.
No one else is here.
We are present with this lake
and each other
deep in the woods,
high above our lives.
Dragonflies dip and buzz
near half-drowned logs.
Bugs create tiny kerplunks
on the water, only slightly ruffled
by a chill breeze.
We breathe slowly and close our eyes.
This may be the last hike of the year.
Our legs burn from the climb up.
We do not know yet
that I have taken us too far.
The way back will be long
and we will fight, yelling into the woods.
The switchbacks down will seem endless
and the dark will creep in from the woods.
Across the water:
red and yellow leaves.
Near us, wild blueberries flame red.
Liona T. Burnham is a Pacific Northwest poet. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Elysium Review, The Comstock Review, Allium, Crab Orchard Review, and more. Her poems won the Northern Virginia Review’s Poetry Prize and were nominated for Best of the Net. She has a master’s degree in English and teaches at the community college level. She enjoys camping and hiking with her husband and three daughters
Banner image is courtesy the poet.
