the song that returns me

Krystal Gauley

There it is,
that song that takes me back
to the aroma of fresh earth,
to sculpted, sinewed hands, strong,
vein-filled and smothered in white chalk and scratches,
to droplets of sweat sliding down sun-warmed skin
through golden hair,
to the kiss that strikes my lips like lightning,
making my knees quake
and my heart pound,
to open doorways drifting me through rock gardens of Eden.

There it is,
the one that takes me back
to the place that anchors me to this earth,
to sunlight spilling across stone,
to a breeze fragrant with pine and petals,
to the warmth that holds me in quiet,
to the place
where I feel God.

What a sweet song it is,
the one playing on repeat,
the one that takes me back
to rolling phrases of encouragement across canyon walls,
to the eagle-eye view from the belay,
to sleeping pads
and wishes cast at shooting stars
on starlit nights,
to the freedom of nudity
and the newness of adventure,
to the thrilling pulse that lingers
after each climb,
each leap,
each breath
taken high above the earth.

There it is,
the rhythm within that song,
the one that takes me back
to fingertips flicking waves of goosebumps across my skin,
to a cheek laid upon bare, brawny, hair-covered chest,
to the heartbeat drumming beneath my ear,
to the building passion

and fulfillment of his wholeness,
to the taste of raspberry
and mango sorbet.

There it is,
the last verse of that song,
the one that brings me back
to the open field, yellow shirts, blackened faces,
to large tents
and thumping fire trucks,
to the pounding, hovering helicopter blades,
to the final, fleeting kiss,
to the distance that drifts,
divides,
and falls between us
a silence
that echoes louder than any song.