The stepping stones
of the stream
running through the orchard
come from the back hills,
from which they rolled.

While I wait,
you cross the stream
over these stones,
and while you wait,
I do the same.

Sometimes,
we meet in the middle.
I carry you on my back,
and turn you around,
and you go one way,
I go the other.

I can still feel
the warmth of your body
on my back.