held here, memory

Haruko and i, walking along this home Lake, home to me, now.

far from shore and headed farther out, laying upon her back and looking at clouds, a woman was doing the backstroke. i wondered how cold the water was this evening. how deep, too?  fathoms enough for Ogopogo, or just enough for jet skis, motorboats, and floating logs.

our first berry together on this walk, oregon grape. what is your real name? sour gasp maker? no, it must be something about your beautiful yellow roots. bottles of juice made of her with ginger, Haruko has made, but it is not here with us, too bad!, as i am thirsty.  Eagles chatter and we both, busy-bodies, looked and looked to find where she, he, their nest and baby birds lived, as our walking path, upon a slope, made our feet are even with the tops of trees who were busy growing, breathing, watching too, for a monster who lives in a lake, granting us the gift of mystery, where all is probable, and most likely, indeed.

thinking this way, i could not help but mention my good friend ‘S’, and she scoffed. i suppose my ghost story from last night will go unsaid. well, that is how practical life has become, even for us mystics.

Haruko and i sample a hard red berry from a shrub, kind of yummy, and another one, darker red from the bush taller than she and i if we stood atop one another, which dried my mouth, and the purple ones too, who are rather bitter. neither of us wondered if it was poison or not. that’s how much, we believe.