There was always enough time to dodge and weave among the silences where words hid themselves under innuendo  It was a metaphor for communion drank from empty cups with stale bread crumbs  Teeth never chatter in the heat of tall clear days except when one hasnt looked up yet to notice  A thirteen year olds wishbone summer is no match for the real world It chants and whirls itself into rock star memories where pretend gets truer in the telling   I guess one could say she should have known better  All the signs said the same thing with different words  So many taps on the shoulder whispers in the ear the kind you feel the need to silence with voices louder still   But once water gets poured into the brown earth the satiated ground is loathe to give it up  That is until heat and time force it back out bringing with it the green goodness of even better stories