His grip around my hand tightens,
the coolness of his fingers match mine.
“Follow me.”
In the snapping of twigs,
between the crickets chirping,
and the whispers of the forest,
we make our own path.

I ask, “Where are we going?”
“Wait and listen.”
We carry on.
In the snapping of twigs,
between the crickets chirping,
and the whispers of the forest,
we make our own path.

The fishy breeze gusts,
as waves crash.
“We're almost there!”
In the snapping of twigs,
between the crickets chirping,
and the whispers of the forest,
we make our own path.

Moonlight glistens through the branches.
The brush thins,
exposing a sparkling violet sky.
“This is beautiful.”
In the snapping of twigs,
between the crickets chirping,
and the whispers of the forest,
we found our way.