“[…]I’m overwhelmed again
like the time we parted

roadside grasses to uncover
wildflowers, astounded by names

as much as the way stamens
dusted our palms with pollen
as we bent to foxglove beardtongue,
trailing arbutus, rough

vines of cinquefoil.
That summer, the rip in your jeans,

the ink stains on your stockings
made me forget my name.
Sunlight, now, through spires.
Going home with the taste

of honey so sweet it numbs
the side of my tongue.

Baby, in the way you turned
to push further through hemlocks,
in the way light bent
to touch the soft

curve of your clavicle,
I’ve found something

I would kneel to
again and again.”

Stephen Cramer, Praise