Stargazing

We sat still and spoke low while the sun turned over the day to the stars.

Owl eyes were watching, but there was nothing much to see, just a wall being built between two halves of a whole.

My light was too dark for you to see by, so you took out your pipe and scented the breeze.

In your old tyme pose you reminded me of a blurry photo of Whitman writing poems under a clear blue Montana sky.

I started dreaming of mountains and poets in trees, smoking pipes and eating chocolate cake.

From our seat at the top of the hill we took snapshots on our eyelids of deer fleeing the scene and distant cars driving by.

We wondered where they could all be rushing to and did they even notice the full moon?

From my side of the wall I whispered, "They want your soul for keeps," and you shrugged and said, "Then all of life is out-running those creeps."

I smiled and side-long glanced at your crinkly eyes in profile, hoping it wouldn't be for the last time.

But when you told me you loved the ocean and feared the mountains in their brooding darkness, I knew you weren't the mountain man of my dreams.

Then I lay the last brick myself and laid down on my side, blinking at the owls and the tall weeds.

I reminded myself that the tide will come in and the tide will go out, and the moon will continue to keep the nights bright whether you're here or not.

So what if sometimes I forget to breathe and that's how I know I've fallen asleep?