ah- it is the sun in the hemlock grove

There were two children in summer who would walk everyday, when the moon was right, across the sandbar to the kissing trees. They walked with hair that disguised them from above as moving dots of blonde sand.

The flowers died on a Monday.

I am that dance across the forest floor when the wind comes, and I am hidden away under the grasses as the field sways, soft and warm from the sun like any fine bed.