ember2

I met her at the food coop. I was fresh from the industrial cauldron of Detroit and in my first year of studies into terrestrial plant ecology. She was tall, dark and handsome, wearing a pair of clunky hiking boots, green fatigues, and ocelot patterned hair cropped close. In the instant her ice colored eyes fell upon me my plans shiftedsoon my studies faltered, my job quit, and previous relationships became neglected.

Intimacy. I wondered incessantly about details: what did she look like slurping spaghetti? How did her skin smell under the perfume of a warm summer sun? This sort of understanding is not derived from mere question and answer but from the sharing of close quartersfrom the intensity of intimate exchange.

Today, responsibilities shirked once more, deadlines missed. Arent I supposed to be writing something for that magazine? Wasnt there a newspaper article dueyesterday? Yes, but nothing is as important as searching your contours, nothing as necessary as moving across the brilliance of your snow covered skin. Beyond the next curve lies that which I have yet to explore.

Someone watches as I go through thisagain. Yesterday we discussed my intentions of climbing the high peaks above my confluence country cabin. She asked why I was so inclined to enter that realm of deep snow and strong wind. What was so important about that vantage, she wondered.
I answered, "Intimacy."