On an island in the ocean,

reaching through cold fog, were trees

old and wise

We stood, enamored with their size

Taking in the long lines of their strong limbs

wanting to climb up

and in

You stood, eyeing the pines with a grin

We waded across a brackish stream

towards mountains

of barnacles and bare roots

larger than our bodies

covered in dirt and a salty glaze

fully exposed to the raw sea air