By Charles M. Sumid      Copyright © 2025      Written 2025

In the valley where I grew up,

we didn’t know how to be close.

We tried anyway—

sun-drunk, careless,

believing summer meant something permanent.

Winter came the way it always does.

You pulled back. Or I did.

Hard to say which.

I tried filling the space

with other voices, other plans.

Nothing fit right.

What I learned:

roots hold better than branches.

The second time around,

everything’s quieter.

That’s how you know it’s real.