If I could trace love like a line on the page,
It would be a silhouette of the Elkhorns—
The radiant crests of the Rockies outlined in gold—
The swirling rapids turned indigo by dusk—
The eastern plains thick with buffalo grass
That extend into amber infinity,
That shift and ripple with the wind
Like schools of gilded fish—
The sky transfiguring from rich azure to glimmering midnight and back again—
The dilapidated buildings that stand as memories
Of people whose dreams and hopes wore them grey and old,
weathered like the sides of their barns—

If I could hum love like a strand of a symphony,
It would be gales that rise in Big Timber,
Morning and evening, like the tides of the sea—
The burble of the creeks that thread the back country—
The roar of Yellowstone's foaming geyers and springs—
The rumble of thunder rolling over beargrass to strike at timber stands—
The crack of rock against rock on a hiking trail,
Nudged into motion by the feet of friends—
The light echoes of our voices in the Caverns—

If I could taste love like Olympian ambrosia,
It would be the honey sold off the bed of a farm truck,
Just down the two lane road that turns into dirt—
Pasties, onion and potato, at St. Patrick's Day in Butte—
Prime Angus steak, roasted with care over open coals—
The hint of pine in the air on Mount Helena's trails—
The salt of tears shed in the arms of a friend—
Cinnamon whiskey splashed into honeycrisp apple cider—

If I could feel love like the touch of your hand,
It would be the crispness of fall, when the leaves turn topaz—
The sweetness of spring rains, when the hills are still green—
The satisfaction of a shady spot beneath the blazing summer sun—
The bitter bite of winter that aches with every breath,
Because love is tumultuous and difficult as well as gentle—
The smoothness of river rocks under bare feet—
The tautness of a playing fishing line—
The rough bark of fir on split firewood against a stacking hand—

If I could let love linger in my senses like perfume,
It would be the smell of pine sap crackling in a woodstove—
The petrichor on dry buttes after a thunderous deluge—
The scent of delicate wildflowers growing blue on a hillside—
The fallen cedar needles forming western loam—
The sacred smoke of sweetgrass and sage—
Horse manure and house paint and roasting fresh-caught trout—
The tang of gasoline poured into a boat's engine
Before it heads down the Blackfoot River—
The smell of trail dirt, lingering like a momento
Of all the atoms of our past selves, 
scattered here, of all places—

The last best place, they call you.

I call you home, because love lives in your mountain lakes, your sleepy towns, your endless beauty that reveals another fraction of my soul in its reflection—

Every single day.