We’re travelers, you and I,
though our maps are not the same:
yours span mountains, ridges and peaks you can feel;
Mine run flat like the plains.
(But traveler-woman, you and I pulse with the self-same gift
We breathe the same sky, drink the same wind, move
endlessly in search)
Today on the horizon I glimpsed you strong and tall:
You towered sheer above me— a beacon for the birds.
And did you feel me underfoot? Slipping dark and deep?
My coverlet of silty silk? My hair of milky weed?
We hunt apart, as vagabonds, and though we never meet—
You’re my sun,
and I’m your root,
and between us orchids grow.
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