Near Heiligenstein, Alsace, France

She knows this damp and moldy trail, familiar as her kitchen. Tree-tops sieve pure Alsace air. I sweat while she is sanctified.
Ça va?
Oui, ça va, I fib. No cafes, newsstands. I need to learn this path.
Along a steeper route, the man we love is pressing hand to bark, gauging the forest’s health. He’s air-lifting snails to safety.
My beautiful mother. That flash of copper to his curls derives from her; his ancient greenness, too. She gently nudged him toward the table when meteor showers beguiled him, discreetly mended his button-shy shirts. My tasks, now. My pleasure in following.