by Lesley Burt
We speed through the Teutoburger Wald,
feeling like a real dude and Bond girl,
as if the old Beetle were a Porsche.
Sunlight melts thick layers of new leaves
into bright pools among wavering shade.
Pathways run and hide among trees.
A clearing invites us to stop:
haul Wurst sandwiches, cake and Apfelsaft
up the slope; eat, kiss, mull over our year.
Clouds drift in. Green-and-gold
shivers, fades into pale olive; we hurry
back to the car, zoom home, make love;
give no thought to later anniversaries
when this becomes just a few snapshots
that one of us has forgotten.