Revisiting Church Square
In January we blew
dandelions: our words covered the garden,
disturbing the bees. By February we
hid our Christian names in poppy-heads:
I wanted to God I wanted to
open your pod. March thorns
tore your fingertips, the tip of my tongue
as we loaded late roses with later promises.
You saw red, I found yellow.
Yet our shadows were equal.
May-day we danced
away: an arm’s length and millennia
apart. At midnight our son came searching
with the crescent in his left hand
and the full moon in his right.
He circled our world. He squared everything.