This week, a repost of one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets:

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by Ellie Hastings

We found the hill, the sepia stones,
hard edges still damp with the ache of winter. 
Gold-rimmed afternoon, almost too late for starting out 
with our packs resurrected from disuse, musty 
as old manuscripts. We peeled away the layers 
of our clothing as they grew damp, and my lips 
sucked icy water from the bottle you held. 
I tasted dust on your fingertips, rough 
as bark, gripping the rocks that bruised us. 
The mystery of altitude, the changing weather 
as we climbed. Snow dripped from the newborn leaves 
and glistened on our bodies like sweat. 
The sky fled upwards. 
How I touched you, again and again.

© 2004 Ellie Hastings. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by permission.