When she travels, I get sick...

When she travels, I get sick and fall to my knees, retching. I claw the earth, trying to pull her home. Dirt, bark, and stone bleed my skin and nails. 

I concentrate, convincing conifers to conspire, their roots reaching farther than my arms can stretch. One speaks of a sequoia sympathetic to my suffering, and soon the forest is teeming with my desire. Pull, I beg, pull!

The vine and the flower, the weed and the wing, critters large and small, the breathing and the dead—ally to ease my pain. Pull, we think, pull! 

The mountain looks down on our efforts. Pity that we're even trying? Or astonishment at our progress? 

Feeling my love summit its peak, it resounds: Pull, pull!

When she travels

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