Fey

 

It nestles in the elbow of the breeze,
this faerie dance, this seeded chance we spin
from gossamer; these minuets begin
when bubbles burst on tongues in cherry trees. 
You bloom for me and I recall the knees
we skinned on bark, and how your sister’s shin
left codeine stripes upon the branch, her thin
and frightened cry, your soothing words, the bees.

The summer fades in sepia and stone.
Today you shrug the honey from my hand
and crack protesting knees in heavy tread
as bubbles sit in dishwater, unblown
and yesterday slinks further from the land –
but in the sun, the cherries still glow red.