Of course the leaves crunch
when we place rubber feet
into crisp and cold and iced mud,
for we disturb their blankets
and make our mark where not wanted,
trees devoid of clothing shudder
and judge us as we climb that hill,
our little Everest,
the top of which a goal to rest for us,
and respite for nature.

We sat on that spire, dishing food
and drink and cries of shame between
us all,
seven souls briefly connecting,
three days our bond lasted
though lingering mementos will crop
into our worlds,
reminding us of promises forged
and broken, though we had all
the faith in fulfilling.

Our seasons never came around,
we never gazed towards another hill
and grew into our lives, entrenched
and scattered to all corners,
the course of land hidden to us,
as now, even if our footsteps might
try to remain, we are marched
toward a lonely Summer.