We never should have stepped off the path,
you know, because the moss stained,
the moist leaves stuck, and the woodsy
odors of fungi and earth clung to our hair.
We should have kept walking, admiring
the light diffused through the trees––Renoir’s
light, brush strokes dappled on skin.
refracted through prisms, reflecting beams.
We should not have stopped to listen to the stream
chattering at our feet to look for rosy trout
suspended in the reeds, speckles shimmering,
mouths open, waiting, waiting, waiting for dusk,
but we did.
© 2011 Kim King