SCRUB

Come with me. 

Time passes in the truncated grays and browns of fading light

Well beyond these leagues of descent.

And as you walk . . .

As you cross the river in your leaky boots . . .

As you grasp my hands to clear the bank . . .

Perhaps we could sit in our shadows 

Under this leaky tree for a while.

Perhaps we could wait it out.

(The ascension, I mean.)

I mean, before we claim a direction and all.

. . . Before we forget where we came from.

. . . We could wait awhile.