Touch Wood
for T.C.


When, in the dark, you pluck up
a dandelion gone to seed and hold it
out to me like a small moon, I know
that you are handing me promise.
I squeeze the air in my pockets.
"Make a wish," I say, and you say "help
me." We blow. Two tiny soft umbrellas
cling and shake at the axe of your laugh.
I must have wished for something but
I've forgotten already. Let me tell you this
story of weeds: back when they were beautiful
flowers, we used to cultivate wishes.
We asked each miniature genie
for a hundred more next spring
and gave our wishes grassy slopes
for growing big and strong. The wishes
were the point. Or the cultivating,
so we walk, you barefoot, me
a kind of Puss in boots, feeling tricky
feelings, telling stories, telling no lies.


(april 2007)