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.
