Fairy Tale


Green bench. Summer day
paints patterns, spotlights words
between my hands.

Green bench. Summer day
tickles hair against my cheek,
impatient hand brushes back.

An oak branch taps my shoulder,

Turn the page.

It’s lost on me,
the eight or ten years of me.
Years of bony knees
folded tight against my chest,
faded shirt years, unaware
of bare toes, ladybugs,
or how my skin luxuriates
along the dusty wood.

Green bench. Summer day
recedes into a throne.
An ancient lonely emperor
bids a fluting nightingale
pray flee its guilded nest,
fey huntress lifts a golden apple
to her lips, tin soldier melts,
and match girl burns ice bright.

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byAngeline© 9 comments/ 4678 views/ 0 favorites

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