Grow Slow Like Seasons

Steam on mugs by the window of cedar,

wool socks drying on the braided rug.

You trace maps in the dust on the table,

say let's follow where the wildflowers shrug.

Back roads fold like a quilt on the dashboard,

pine sap sweet on the air we breathe.

Your laugh shakes leaves like a little windstorm.

We step where the creek rides silver beneath.