When I was young
I didn’t know what the word crisp meant.
I just thought it meant good.
As in, a crisp potato chip
Or a crisp apple.
When I was at church, in August,
I turned to a member
Sweating through his seersucker
And said “beautiful crisp day, ain’t it?”
And he stared at me the same way
The whole congregation did
That time that I asked for seconds
Of the crackers and grape juice
Not knowing what that was either.
But then, last October, I went hiking with you
And the leaves crunched under your feet
And I heard the wind whistle
Through the gorge, deep
And cut by a river flowing with
Cold, needle-y water
And I smelled a bonfire,
Some barn’s fire,
And I got it.
2017 Photograph: Local Beauty, by Oli Porter