She glows golden.
This honeyed girl
of puckish charm
is everything
of woman
yet
small-made.
Like a
whorl of nested twigs,
she is a delicacy
of intention.
Defined with purpose
yet still forming,
she is still
not quite ready.
Tell me then
why did we not share this news?
To be found is to be known
so
tell me.
Why did we bury it in the backyard
with the forget-me-nots
and the potatoes?
With measured step
I trod lightly,
lest the bracken’s crackle
herald my ungainly arrival.
I may yet
disappear.
And though the old pear
may rot on the sill,
each sapling carries within it
its own
inevitability.
The soil of regret may
nourish still.
