Snapshots

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.