Fox (ii.)

One day 

I will remember to

ask her name. 

She will not look up from

the dandelion

in her slender piano fingers.

She will say, "Fox," & 

nothing else. Her voice

will be 

monotone & she will

begin to pick

at the stem 

of the flower. I

will nod. I will accept it

without question, because 

it will suit her. 

I will never 

quite figure out

why. 

She will

show me

the glory in mudstains

& bugbites &

sunburns. She will tell me

that they are trophies

of adventure.

She will lead me to 

a hidden field & dance for me

to the music in her head.

She will cover my hand

in her own

& I will notice 

that it is 

a little bit cold.

I won't mind; it will

be summer &

it will soothe the heat

in my own 

oven-baked limbs. She will

tell me that 

she wants 

to be musical.

She will whisper

that no one can keep up

with the 

beat in her blood

& I will catch it

just as it 

goes to 

flyawayonthebreeze.

We will find an

uneven woodenfootbridge

together, & she will

instruct me to lay down

next to her 

with our feet dangling

so that we could

watch the atmosphere. 

The sky will be a blanket 

of clouds & she

will say that it reminds her

of oceans, but for the fact

that it isn't the color

of my eyes. 

She will look 

down into the 

sun-reflected-in-the-stream 

that will

become ours

& she will dip

only one toe in, not 

wanting the ripples 

to be bigger than

us. We 

will listen to the water

bubble & giggle 

at the dirt

between our toes. 

I will notice

the way she 

licks her lips &

she will watch the

curl of my

eyelashes & we

will both

insist that 

we don't

pay attention to

the little things. 

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