For Anne


There should be a mountain range named after you
important as the Alps
cliffs facing high impossible air
above the clouds
above the air;
like a book held up for the sky to read 
one page from forever ago 
a sea-bed stamped with spiral script 
a poem in ammonites
Romeo and Juliet 
in amber
a tale as old as phyla,
coming of age long before mammals 
with their sounds 
and strange cave art.

You know everything this earth has ever known.

A trilobite traces her name
in the minerals
that make your bones
a causality chain four letters long 
a friendship bracelet 
from the grandmothers 
who used to swim
who shared your calcium
with the coral.

Further down the mountain
questions mark scent trails
as blooms crush under footfalls,
I wonder what the rain will bring
the foliage is full of predictions
roots murmuring to each other that
they form a map 
to a lost temple, or better—

I lean into your shoulder, in my happy place
our coffee steaming its own strange spirals
and we make plans
(in no particular order)
to save the world
to stop time
to never be parted again;

Dawn rises,
and like green 
we are late 
for nothing.