the gnarled elbows of
that oak, wizened with
snow-crusts of
one thousand pretty winters
held me that day fast

august-limbed, i
stumbled
through the lavender
flashes of a crystal
sharp voice in my ears

ringing bells and harebells
purple, gold, spreading
tripping heels
where am i
where am i

shh, said the branches
on my shoulder blades

he was far behind me
seething to himself and
he could not see to follow
but years later,
my oak protector reduced to
rings,

i feel him still angry,
red—I feel him
want to find me