Guiding me through the rainforest,
forgiveness slipped around my waist like a rope,
steering me past dangerous snakes
and stopping mid-stride to say,
“Listen. Can you hear that?”
Seeming to wander but walking with intention,
wanting me to see.
Urging me up to the sacred Ceiba tree,
whose simple palms hold the silvery translucence
of the tiny Glass Frog.
“Look,” he whispers, breathless, offering me his binoculars,
his large hands turning my shoulders,
sweat and lemongrass trickling down my ivory neck.