for Sue Lester

I have followed you
since we were 8, you
always a head taller and
eight months older,

down dusty paths strewn
with all manner of loveliness—
poppies, blue dicks, soft
green grasses—and potential

danger—poison oak,
crumbly granite underfoot,
so easy to slip on, all
manner of bite-y insects—

through Girl Scouts and
band, into college and
careers, grownup lives
and loves.

And nearly six decades
later, I still fall into step
behind you on a seaside
blufftop trail, watching

you lope ahead, leading
the way—how I still love
to follow your lead—
heading toward fascination

and discoveries I would not
have seen—or names
of flowers, birds, marine
life I would not have known
without you:

anthopleura elegantissima
clonal anemone

eriogonum latifolium
coast buckwheat

pisaster ochraceus
purple seastar

lupinus arborus—
yellow lupine

I will follow you as
long as this body holds
up, heading, like Pooh
and Christopher Robin,

into the world for a big
explore, or little ones,
wherever we find us two,
my girl-next-door best friend,

still a head taller, even
as we shrink a bit,
as we grow to each other—
anam cara, soul friend—

more precious with
each passing year.