we marked them with brittle fairy wings,
our memories tucked between worn leather
buried beneath a half-beating heart,
the hollowed oak of juniper street
but we were children running, once
the skeleton—our escape flying through puddles and wielding staffs of abandoned branches embraced by vines and pretty petals with rain gliding and hills kissing rosy suns feeding grasses glittering fire-gold eyes
now the hollowed oak weeps,
the stale rain whispering sleep
as moonlight settles over faded pavement,
the burial cloak of juniper street
—we were children, once
