It was a violent spring.

Cheers hit,

smiles fell.

Histories recoiled on themselves and

baseballs were thrown

to our pasts. Sunburned geometry

grazed our toes and

sat down to hibernate.

We were nine years old again,

at last.

Through rivers of DNA and follicle forests,

we recreated.

We remembered, and we wept.

Yet we reached the sound conclusion

that voodoo

was inept

at what we needed.

We needed time.

Staring at decayed wood and symphonies of hay -

we grew up in fish bowls. We were the needle,

never found.

Now replaced,

we danced to regain

hand hip connections in balloon filled ballrooms we

kissed

away our youth.

Too quickly.

Pricked fingers and pine needled luck;

we wanted sun drops on our eyelids

unforced by machinery.

We wanted the willows freedom to swoon

at bathing ducks.