All that pretty hair drifting through your fingers on the
way to the ground. So light the sun blows right through, like all that care was
a dream. That heavy hand of hope pressing out the color from adolescent
afternoons, our hands slow, careless, quivering novices. All those noes before
inhaling, stilling regret, then speaking. One more morning dive beneath covers
before sailing down a river, smelling pomegranates, and knowing your stomach
turns at someone else’s longing. There’s the almost of an early Spring, one
breath away from frost, the upheld pause, suspension that expects the fall.
Inevitable, endless, earth; we no longer recall how to regain the moon.
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