I walk with you again, this crowded
gravel path. We pass beneath dying
elms, fire maples, thick oaks. Soon
bats will rise up, above the trees.
My hair clings to my skull in the rain.
I hear the river moving stones in its bed.
The rain stops. Now, spots of sun,
the steady dripping from leaves.
I come to you as to an old lover. You,
of all the rest, will never leave me.
I'm posting an old poem for this week's prompt, which is Traveling Companions.