Vanishing

Perhaps it is my future self

That stands behind a creaking pine

Along the hill that, in the sun,

Becomes a slow and labored climb.

I hope she sees that, though I slow, 

I do not stop my quest to meet her

At the top, although I know her quiet knack

Of vanishing before we meet—

It is a skill I have honed well

And taught to her to spite myself.