In the woods this morning, there is no argument.

Last night is a tombstone,
today is a bouquet of flowers.

We walk in silence among bracken fern, between white oak.

He is wearing his plaid flannel shirt, the only one he owns,
meant for occasions like this. I am wishing I had brought my scarf.

We are on the edge of fall, when leaves decide to let go
or a cold wind decides for them.

Sometimes our silence is an old comfort,
easy and familiar as propping my feet next to the fire.

Sometimes our silence is a pulse,
a tenuous alarm that strings us together.

These times remind me that we are separate people.
Maybe that’s why they happen at all—

to call me into my skin,
to mark the division in our fingers.

Sometimes I look at him and remember he has brown eyes.
How easily I forget—

the color stops mattering at a certain point.
It’s the shadows that count.

The way a pupil flares under the weight of recognition.