Moonwhistle

She’d had too much winter

and spring came

with summer on its heels

like two pigtailed girls twirling in the sweet, tall grass, holding hands.

And then it blew, that low whistling, calling pixies to play

with a language none of them knew she understood;

and then the moon, the moon—

so hopeful, bright and round,

and who

can compete with the moon.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

for dVerse OpenLinkNight