Our Lovely Fairytale


your hands in my hair is salve enough
to stop the world awhile.          our mornings
run to afternoon and together
means more than sunlight and april showers
to these may flowers we shoot on hikes
along the stream flowing toward the elkhorn
river with its willows weeping   —   what
is it these willows know?     —   but your hands
in my hair still the doubts,   ill omens
haunting from experience and past
days,   loves lost,   abandonments,   life’s soft
parade taking separate streets away
from dreams toward something . . . but you and I,
have our exemption from fate herself.

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