Dark ivy draws a wave across the yard,
even the shadows
are streaked with rain. Light drizzles the oak leaves,
and I rock behind this screen,
listening to squirrels, the bickering of jays.
The five a.m. garbage truck
doesn’t wake you
as it scrapes the curb from can to can.
Three hours of crying lit the windows next door,
but now you lie as quiet
as the rain. After the dozen books,
the trail we frayed from piano
to puppets, to the cardboard frog
on his pond of cut wool,
I lean to your blanket
and hold my breath.
Rachel, about that little girl
who started home late
across the darkening woods ….
Someday I’ll give you the words I used all night
to guide her home. So many ways
to enter the forest and never return.
But happily that’s another ending.
Under a basket of cornflowers
hung from the mantel,
she sleeps now in her cottage near the town.
Her father watches
new light clothe the trees.
In his orchard
the crows out-cackle the squirrels.
He holds his breath to hear
her breathe, around his finger
small fingers curl.
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