as the leaves in autumn
from green to crimson
from smiling cornflower sky to
a snow-crusted bottom

of lies. The bloom
off the rose. Is it something
that happened or
something you chose? The oak,

my canopy cut down
to a stump jutting out of
the ground. I look up and see
where the ropes tied to the branch

holding the tire swing, in April
the beginning of spring. You pushed
a girl in a sunflower dress
as the church bells rang and

the robin sang. You pushed
her, with hands on her back, her wavy
hair fly in the air, and the clack of
the hens crocheting in chairs. The lilacs,

dripping sweet till the moon
hung like a cheeseball with teeth. All this
in the spot where a stump sits
and the roots rot as the sky spits.