4-22 Up- Yosemite National Park

mother,

the dogwood uncurling,

drips white,

on my face, I am

walking,

between where

and there,

looking up, and up, and up,

and

drip,

I squeeze her hand,

stepping carefully,

between, 

oval shapes, zig-zags, lines,

blending, 

gray, black, brown,

speckled white,

puddle, 

I stop,

looking up, and sideways, and around,

and then,

up, and up, and up,

morning fog, uncurling,

reaches away from us,

in the field,

I let go of her hand,

running, skipping,

awkward, two-step,

one step, almost slip,

I arrive,

in the sun,

filtering, unsure,

out of the not fog,

green blades of drops,

grasses, slivers,

warm shivers,

my ankles are wet,

but, 

across the field,

I look out, 

and then,

up,

and up,

and up,

and down, I follow,

follow, 

my mother is behind me,

she is looking at,

me, looking up,

the trees rising,

down the water falling,

I am cold again, all at once,

my hand uncurling,

grabs hers,

and we,

look,

up.