From the attic

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.

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