September 2007


Penciled dashes
smudged on the door’s wide frame
once scribbled next to the calendula-hued
crowns of their heads; time’s testament.

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Under the eaves
of the weather-worn gazebo
she whispered secrets
with hidden meanings

I was meant to decode.

The words tickled my ear,
flitting against the skin
like a moth’s fragile wings.

Never tell, she implored,
yellow-tipped dandelions wilting
in her delicate fist.

Summer’s daughter, magical
friend I had scavenged and stolen
from the lost and found,
with cryptic love-messages fit for an oracle.