The bridge became the symbol

for what we came to see as us, 

but I recall as vividly the cockleburs, 

Queen Anne's Lace, the muted colors 

of autumn, and, of course, the rain 

that fell like mist. The rain always there, 

its presence manifest by inevitability, 

ghost-like even as the clouds lifted 

and the sun shone. 

                                   The day was cold, 

the rain made it more so, sending us 

to seek shelter and warmth, and all this 

was as one, but it was the bridge—

upon which we stood and talked and became one

as mountain water tumbled over boulders 

below on its way to the Deschutes—

that meant something to us.  

                                                   We could refer 

to the bridge and know what was meant, 

is meant, shorthand for a moment, 

more than any other moment, that defined 

two lives, and still define them.

                                                         One takes 

much on faith, but the bridge was real, 

which may be why it became our touchstone,

not that we need it. Or, because we need it.