The outline of a green hill,
your red hair plastered against it.
And you wrestled around
Took a spot (right there right there)
As I let words plunge into the weeds.
And lately Iíve been considering birds
and the sounds tiny feet make.
White powder; Iíve never smelled it.
Iíve never woken up and comforted someone.
Not someone so fragile,
so loud when protesting.
But to interrupt whispered notes
and entangled fingers
and hearts, with wailing.
With the assembling of small beds
and circles under eyes.
No. I let my dream fly.
I poured the green hill
Into the tub and it
slipped down down into the drain.
But my words will linger in the air
Hissing and cracking when youíre near.