the spring is too flat here; there are no
grand peaks in the clouds, no witches asleep over grey
moors, their brooms spliced out
into moss and heather. these are meant
to be the wailing times
and yet when I stand outside, I hear nothing.
there should be the tromping of boots
as my sister and I make
the pasture into a younger braver earth,
our myths catching the fey sewn
between heaven and the fields.
there should be the false hissing
of dragons, their steam making low
clouds dashed up like sunsets; they are yowling
in the sky, heralding the fall
of the planet
as my mother yells for dinner. we are returning:
the new grass poking angrily into our
pretend skirts; we had sticks and
yarn strapped to our backs, bow and arrows, for hunting,
we shed these
like second-skins,
coming back into civilization quite carelessly
as if we could go out again
tomorrow.
the last pavilion 