Tightly curled under
the wooden table, red hair,
fire-lit, stroked by
the invisible hand of
a gentle breeze. The story
of my first love. Lost
in another world, whispered
sign of dreams, open
fields, birds, maybe the turkey
he ate whole that New Years’ eve.
Now sometimes our dreams
collide, red curls, fire-lit, mix
again, secrets are
shared again, in a paral-
lel place at the edge of time.
by Rachel David
