She steps in time with him,
While he steps out of time to all that there is.
Softly, silently, they dance,
With silver moonlight striking down
And black leaves falling.
They dance in a garden,
Of sorts, always of sorts.
The trees there black and bent,
Angled like broken flower stems strewn through time.
The only green there is,
Along murky waters that show no futures,
Of places that should have been
And a universe that never ends.
There is no wind, yet…
No, they whirl!
In still air they whirl in the undercurrent of thought,
Perhaps, just perhaps,
This time of dancing doesn’t have to end.
The couple twirl,
One in time and one out.
Never quite in sync,
But always in unison.
The man steps out of time with the garden,
To a place and time where
Clear pond waters swirl with blue light
Just beneath the surface.
With her hand still in his,
But her face gone from sight,
He snags a red fruit from an unbent tree
And lets green leaves catch in his hair.
A twirl and a breath,
Held long and deep,
Brings him back into her arms
And to the garden with footsteps marked with rust
And to night skies with no starlight.
The apple’s skin breaks beneath their teeth,
And seeps into the spaces between their thoughts.
The same thoughts that summon this garden
That blooms green beneath their feet.