In her floating skirts she fell
With the perfect rhythm of the swing
Which had raised her to the clouds
Above the beanstalk trees of childhood.

And the snows fell
In the Atlantic winter
When she skated across the ocean
To Africa in the afternoon
Of her seventh Epiphany.

She told her dream stories
To the wild swans,
For those family quarrels
Were springtide storms.
But in a girl’s memory
Are many kinds of fall.

Tearfully she would learn how
The blossom does not return
Once the tree is shaken,

So she would hear the sound
Of the city-bound express.
Its some-time-soon promise
Flashing past her innocence revealed.
Then there were no more seasons
But of her own making:
The sight of stars in summer light.

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