do you remember my grandmother’s wood?
-the hanging snake vines that formed swings for two,
the pale, upturned roots near the shore,
that made strange, magical palaces?
we called it her wood – though in truth it never was.
we raced through the neighbor’s field to get there
-how furious he would have been to know
that we had crushed a single tender plant.
you held aside the barbed wire,
and I crawled through,
my hair caught, and you pulled it so roughly free
that I cried.
all love is stolen
-you taught me that.
it moves through our heart like a fever
and then it is gone,
no more our own than the amber moon
passing through a cloud.
like children we are freed only for the planting and the harvest.
in the winter we will be called back
to stand in line.
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