School children littered the asphalt, weaving through a
slalom of orange and yellow traffic cones, but there

beneath the calming shadow of the play-
ground oasis elder, sat a boy made of glass.

He wore a semicircle smile and hand-me-
downs found at the bottom of a garage sale free bin;

in his hand, clutched like the innocence of spring, a
bouquet of dandelions plucked from the Earth

stained his fingers with melted butter. He had
spent his recess alone with choosy eyes,

finding the perfect array for her, his Guinevere
of the swing set kingdom.

Now leaving the quiet whisper of the elder tree,
wanderlust abound, stealthily trips over

tire chips and deflated Juicy Juice boxes
to where she sat, perched atop the jungle gym.

His love is her memorystone, the one she clutches
like the feather of a robin, a delicate im-

balance between beauty and loss, the memory
she soaks into her roots, her branches.

He presented her the flowers, her balm of Gilead,
with his freckled cheeks turned toward heaven

and, for once, the past was itself