The row of oaks in front of the firs.
A place to start.
Bare limbs enfolded in wintergreen.

The timing is always off.
She found her second chance, again,
in a string of dances but it didn’t match
his resolve which was like an acorn
fifty years on.
She even watched other women
but they seemed know
how to separate pie from fiction.
But she kept at it, month after month,
toiling away in place, barely blinking.
A dream framed in evergreen.
There were days the pie was perfect.
But others when she forgot the steps.
Sometimes, she just enjoyed the dance.

We were lost
to all senses,
no morning propriety.
The night had won.
He said, “I worship you…”
I said, “Don’t burn the toast.”

Distant thunder doesn’t distract
the butterfly from its flitter
nor her staring without seeing the tree

The insect uses instinct
and will be dead soon

She loves him desperately
instead of safely keeping time
and that is of no consequence
to a host of long tomorrows

How do you like
living with your own undoing?
I hope the memories are as delightful
as the stories.
I’m enjoying my secret pockets
full of kept daylight –
like bridging the real world outside
and the new world of the film
by drowning out distractions
with Milk Duds
during coming attractions.

Don’t you find it exhausting
to pretend there’s no possibility?
I’m open, though few see the signs.