My legs, two stalks of cattail swinging, against the amber yellow sun
are the single stability between us,
thin as a piece of green pastel,
the pestle and the mortar we've taken root in

fragility and so, you've got my hand
three four steps ahead
pulling us into a run my shoulder joint disagrees with
and over it, you're tossing grenades,
indifference which snaps at my feet
boiling the need to catch you.
You are my pond, my soil, my still of day
and still
beneath your palm I am a blossom, a
girlish petal pining in your breeze.