Forged in the the magma of numberless sunsets
they dance lightly with butterfly footprints.
There, after the moon rises and hangs loosely
in the boneless night, they shine like new, red
carbon, back-lit to the moisture of ruby lipstick.
Floral-patterned dresses and scent of lilac
perform their ritual of sensory recall. He still
remembers what she smelled like that first time
in the back of his 1941 Buick.
She glowed and he burst. Sixty years
and many grandchildren later,
and he still cries when he sees her picture.
Forget about the rippling gifts of
the chatty stones, bellies rubbed and flat
from so much time dancing with the river.
Just point me toward the places where
the wise ones still dance with the expectation
of getting lucky – lucky enough
to hold her hand just one more time.