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| Megan |
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| Mary
The girls lather the sun's head, and he curses like a
spoiled boy when they thrust his head into the wash basin
in order to rinse it.
Thousands of soap bubbles rise into
the air, like tiny rainbows above the horizon of a
spellbound butterfly.
The pigeons chase after the bubbles.
The light gestures, scolding the just waking swallows.
It's amazing the grownups remain asleep with so much
racket.
We'll thrust a cicada under grandfather's nostril
so he can smell our same spring and the end of his cane
will bloom like a miniature cherry tree.
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