Not Dancing to the Sunlight
it was you who asked to see by the birches as they softened the shadow of the tree line- held dark under the more severe angle of a rising sun. but now that is a day behind. all is weak in these hours we wake with soft touching: we mouth out subtle echoes to find one another out, before the first light helps deceive us. for now we wonder at our fancying our twisted forms restfully rising out of the dewed grass- a cool splash soon lost to noon.