Between the willow trees we sat
trailing the tips of our fingers
in the whispering brook.
It told us secrets
and the meanings of life
while you lit a fire with the corners of your elbows
against the rocky soil.
God said it was good.
We knew it, too,
as we created hope in the forms of
daffodils with twisted stems
and rose thorns between our teeth.
We went fishing in that brook, just us two,
fishing without nets
fishing with our cupped hands and trembling fingers
for smiles only lent to us and
summer days long wasted and
sleepless nights not loved.
We'd take our prizes home in our ears and eyes
and nurse them back to health
with decaying foliage
and luke-warm water.
They were set free in our special place,
like Monarchs raised from caterpillars to cocoons in little mesh houses
and that was the hardest part.
Remember how fast they'd skip and run and fly away?