Q-Passage

Entering the woods, the path rose to our feet,
The earth firm, and cool, beneath latticed
Branches. We walked years in this way,
Occasionally hand in hand, more often
Without touching, though sensing presence.
Then, subtly, the path's composition
Began changing. Now, rounding an oak,
Thick brush prevents our rejoining.
I start to call to her, but there's a birdsong
I haven't heard in years, a flash
Of exotic colour high in the feathery
Branches. Wandering, beside a stream I stop.
In the bright water cupped in my hands,
My face. And I, who since a youth
Sought an overview so as to synthesize,
I search the dark-eyed reflection only
To recognize, not admire myself. My instinct
Is a shout to her, but if we follow voices
To blend our dotted paths on farther
In the wood, what can change?
Crisply, a car door slams. I look out.
She has returned in her green car, and I rise,
Unclasping my intertwined fingers,
The crystal I've stared into, becoming air.