Anna

16

Kristen’s Connecticut II.

Swung
up
in pines
and birches,
our tea is still hot.
We run towards our looming moon
through the day and let our fireflies sing us to sleep.
I see you were given a new shooting star to string up in our branches - forest green,
like our naiad cat-man’s eyes. Yours too, though they are at half-mast while you sail past your paradoxes and into the mindless seductions of faerie whispers.
Do you look forward to morning? When our sun will hit those blond locks like Narcissus’ pool
which you brushed by the heat of the burner we left on -
Oh! Did I mention our tea is
ready? But wait, you
seem to know
what they have sung.