First Communion

A sweet, soft pulp,
wrapped in the confidence of autumn,
carried in her oversized coat pocket –
all the more sacred
for its secrecy.

We passed through gates
of elms, pines tall as dinosaurs,
quiet enough to be alive.
Dry leaves crunched,
exposing us
to no one.

Sunlight flickered, daring,
through hushed,
circling cedars.

Seated at a
fallen trunk,
we consumed the pulp
bite by bite
to remember home.