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