With the wind whistling through our ears we rode on the trail,
I sat behind him, pulling tighter on faster turns,
And releasing my grip when the road had less rocks and more dirt.
I read my own body through my grip, much like our marriage so far,
Eleven months of hard, fierce grips and some months of letting go,
Letting the wind whistle through our ears without gripping or fear sometimes.
The landscape changes as we go steeper, the trees more dense,
Each pine distinct before but now lost in this forest of forests.
And when he begins to sing out loud,
The smell of exhaust and dirt and the beauty of nature fills my mouth.
Listening to his tones echo this mountain scape, the taste of it all overwhelms me.
The taste is so sweet.