The Maypole
I grew,
Whilst you cultivated inches
And we
twisted our thoughts together
ribbons on a maypole,
spinning around one point
circling weaving wending
- thoughts little beads upon a
thread –until the base becomes
as tight and unified as a tree’s stump,
the bark as finely carved and grained
in its gnarled and new growth
as the most established of oak
heralds. Laced up, our love looks
festive, streamers of primary brightness
pixelated with baser, earthy tones
an elemental, invisible hold
that binds the core together.
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