Our Truths

Moonlight is veiled by clouds, 

casting patterns over open grass.

Cricket voices echo.

Air begins to cool.

The path I seek is marked by carvings 

on the knot of a tree,

scratched into wood a long time ago.

This is a ghost forest,

undisturbed, dormant,

and I follow an old path.

As my eyes adjust,

I begin to see shapes.

I see the clearing, the boulder,

the black shape of the hut

and they show me the way.

We buried it here, on a night like this one.

The rich scent of soil around the hut

and the veiled sky.

I make my way to the left,

the metal key cold against my palm. 

I use my hands, on my knees.

I pull up roots and dig out rocks.

I find the square edges with my fingers,

the padlock still intact.

It opens smoothly, releasing a musty scent.

I find the papers, still inside,

our truths, in sprawling ink.

I unfold them 

carefully read them.

My handwriting was different then, but 

I already know the words well.

Your writing is foreign,

a jumble of capitols and lowercases.

These letters form the map.

The map will tell me where you have gone.