Photo by Craig Zerbe

drawn by liquid chemistry
redolence of home
I made my way to you
like a salmon to natal streams

but did not find you

you, out of reach—a few blocks west
a mile north, fields brimming

July heat and amber as I drove
tear-bleary on that road
so alone

years later when I found you
we looked at each other like pilgrims
stumbling our peregrine way
past fresh graves—resigned

the lone wanderers

yet the throb-thrumming of hearts
drew us—awakened unaware

to desire
unlikely arrivals

we counted our seeds
planted greenhouses, fields fertile
with craving
flesh and blood enfolded—

the consummation of careful steps
at once overtaken to opulence

blushed abundance
tendrils of ardor
patterns of resilience and life

Tricia Gates Brown

Tricia Gates Brown works as writer and editor in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, mainly writing for the National Park Service and Native tribes. She is also a columnist at Patheos.com on the topic of religion and doubt. She makes art quilts and relishes her cats, and while an ordained deacon in the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon, considers herself “Quakopalian.”

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