His legs cling to the supple
limbs of the tree
his hands are swinging free,
yearning to fall and touch the ground
like a may flower
he flows with the wind
precariously
he does not care if he falls
he will not get hurt
he knows the earth in depth
and he loves the musky dirt
she leaps the tombstones
like a heron in flight
she knows
no one lives there in
the ground
not actually
she stops and thinks
hasn't she already
crossed over...to the other side
leaped over to the dead
then she tosses her head
a bunch of curls
a bunch of secrets
she sat passively through all her lives..
She knew them all too well…
and they were all too unreal
like a waking dream
with the haunting rhythm
of a drunk wasp in spring time
it is the night time now
and the two are all alone
seen to some
but heard to none
--just like children should be
the woodland rustles
and the graveyard whistles
incoherently
but they understand
what the woodland knows
and what the graveyard seeks
he frowns and say,
"maybe, this is life"
