They balance in tree pose—a human forest;
real trees would smile at this.
He frowns when she licks her fingers in public;
suddenly she is four years old.
Anxious mother’s hands hover like bees
as she swivels away from safety.
Imagined calamities echo
all these years later, all these years later.
Of course she wished on candles for wings,
dreamt of flights over canyons—
featherless skin illuminated in a wedge of sun;
real birds would smile at this.
~~~
Inspired by many things, including my yoga class, We Write Poems and The Sunday Whirl.