You took careful steps. Our
fingers grazed the honeycomb rock
that guided us down the wrong path.
Purple trail, not blue.

We walked until our feet
swelled and the trees
began to look the same.
Cranky, bored, we argued,

fingering our pockets, yearning
for the screens we’d intentionally left behind.
The crescent moon watched us from
behind the wind-bent pines.

No GPS, no hearts to click,
no podcasts to tell us to be present.
Just more the trees, more trees,
darkening to shadows.

Just coarse rocks and a narrow, endless path.
You paused, cupped the moon—a slice of light
in your hand. Stand anywhere in the world, you said,
and hold the waning light in your left hand.

We were still a moment. A moment.
We held the moon a while, a short while,
before the evening chill nudged us along a
path that would soon end after all.