The path that is new to you
is familiar to others, clearly worn by feet
walking it minutes, days, decades,
centuries before you.

You know this, of course, but walking
with a friend — who used to regularly tread
this path with her beloved — it feels new,
as it did the last time you were here,
which was the first time,
or was it?

Three grand oaks lean over the path
at the same angle, as if by agreement,
shaggier now, canopied with dark leaves
against the heat, which is coming,
as it does.

Both of you pause in the shade,
listen to the swift river running high and green
masked by thick foliage, remember others
with whom you walked paths like this,
ones seemingly vanished into mystery.

Rest in the moment, admiring
the poetry of storied trunks and reaching branches,
before walking a bit more, moving back
into the light, and going on.