Once (or twice) in youth I trimmed
a purple elder whip & marched
through clearings grown in jewel
weed, cutting the wand through green
stems & thrilling to the order in
which they fell—knowing nothing
of the scythe & its implications,
or space between harvest &
destruction… golden heads.
A line of maple leaves, ranked
by waves on the shore. Lost
pennies under water; smiles
moving on my sister’s eyes, dropping
our coins in the fountain for luck.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 3.
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