You gathered the soil

of the Southern Alps

on treks through

every version of moisture falling.

That splendid crunch

when you landed

in snow, and a bit

clung to you, didn’t it?

He tied your laces

without a thought:

the sturdy knot, the loops

symmetrical every time,

(some kind of miracle)

that confident tug.

Bell birds rejoiced,

as you swayed through the bush,

tight, with his stride.

But your travels ended

last night in exuberant flight

with a different kind of knot.

It holds you

nodding, in the morning breeze.

Do residents think me strange?

Old lady in cut offs,

photographing an empty intersection.

I just can’t resist

your high wire act.

I’ll remember you long after

that drunken fellow

with an excellent arm

has forgotten

his wild, extravagant gesture.

Long after your laces

have let go.