A road bends more
with autumn days,
its apron bowed
under paint shavings
and whittled gold.
A fence does not convince;
eyes have a way
of poking through
to say, "Hello!"
(or "Neigh, not you.")
The best things come
with a blur of intent,
too sweet to stick;
as I pin you
between wind and kiss.
These are the jewels
I'd take for a crown
if you were the boy
and I was a girl
and the woods hid trolls.
That we might rest
with a comfort of hands
and dangling feet
as the hinges squeak
and time sits down.
