I followed your laughter to cemetery apples,
Danced after through stones, over acorns and past
Dry-throated leaf-ghosts, restless and rattling.
Crisp evening, scent of fruit: behind the twisted
Tree I almost caught you, turned and tumbled
Less than lightly over roots and off again,
Around a marble corner where. breath. catches. --
Smooth stone wings and lips cold for kissing,
But not tonight, despite warm rose and milky
Light: romantic candle glow from -- turnips?
(Well, I guess any sconce with roots will do
For a wine-chilled feast of worms and goblins.)
I have no delusions of innocent frolic in this game;
If swamp replaced concrete, your laughter would
Crack with the snap of my bones in the grey
Morning frost... but tonight, enough to dizzy and
Confuse. Out of breath, I share an apple with
Abigail Neverwept (row fifteen, plot three) and ask you:
Will my cold soil warm beneath your next merry chase?
-- By Nora
For Will of the Wisp
Samhain 2002, revised March 2005