I’ll be walking under the radar,
under street lights, not
off the grid.

I’ll be unlicensed, never
trafficking in titles
with or without wheels.

I’ll be posting signs:
“The ocean is not for sale”
in that forever city girl way.

I’ll be desperately seeking ginger
essence with just the right amount
of zing and spice.

The perfectly steeped
blue bottled
rose water.

I’ll be reading labels out loud:
“You know how to use it—
massage liberally into skin.”

I’ll be remembering
how to swim
is like riding a bicycle

from the muddy pedestrian trail
beneath the birches. I’ll be
more climber than swinger

if I start practicing again.
If the trees can forgive me.

What are they whispering about me
into the canopy air? Warning
their neighbors to beware

through their hidden underground
fungal wood wide web?
The secret’s out.

I’ll be coming in peace,
limbs respectfully bent downward,
my feet planted firmly in the duff.

I’ll be back.