This was last spring.

Wrapped about my finger
was not you so tightly,
but a wavy strand from your head.

As the sun would rise
and set aflame the aspen bent nodding upriver,
the Columbia began to dance
and beckon those that would call themselves surfers.

But here I would sit at this picnic table
in this gorge between St. Helens and Hood
thinking of you and your brown strands.

Woven throughout this blue fleece
I'd tug you out,
wrap you about my index
and then give you up to the wind

to also have you here.